Rainbow Six: Black Sheep
by ClancyEnthusiast
Summary: The year is 2013. When a scrapped nuclear device is stolen from an Irish arms trafficker, an Islamic terrorist group aspires to set off a bomb on US soil. Only RAINBOW stands in their way, but what can they do with a debilitating new director?
1. Black Clouds and Thunderbolts

A/N: What's up folks? ClancyEnthusiast here with, obviously, a Tom Clancy fic to satisfy your gritty counter-terrorism cravings! I came up with this story after playing a bit of the good old Rainbow Six from back in 1998. (I have the gold edition with the Eagle Watch mission pack for my PC. Great fun, you can get it on Amazon for pretty cheap.) For those of you who don't know, that game was actually based on the book, which is why it kicked total ass! This is just a quick story that I'm trying out to overcome by damned writer's block. Shouldn't be more than ten chapters. Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys and reviews. Serious people, please review. Feedback is an author's best friend! So that's all. Have fun reading!

-Prologue-

Black Clouds and Thunderbolts

It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd had a decent rain poncho, Sean McReary thought to himself in the midst of the horrid thunderstorm that had been ravaging their little patch of ocean for the past half hour. He stood on the bow, overseeing a couple of his grunts who were still packaging the newest batch of low caliber small arms. The sound of rain blanketing the deck drowned out most his orders, so he'd given up shouting at them minutes after the storm had rolled in, and eventually they'd picked up on how to do it properly. It wasn't a big deal, he realized. If anything, he should have been worried about the water facilitating rust on the weapons' components. AK-47 rifles had a tendency to respond negatively to moist environments. That was why they were packed in watertight plastic bags before being stacked inside the crate. Lighting flashed overhead for a brief second, and McReary jumped when he heard the thunder moments later.

McReary hated thunderstorms. It had been during a thunderstorm, not unlike this one, that his father had been murdered by British soldiers in Northern Ireland. Paddy McReary had been a notorious member of the provisional wing of the IRA, who'd killed more than his fair share of SAS commandos. Little Sean, who'd been playing in the rain only feet away when the skirmish broke out, had been forced to watch his father's death in the midst of a hellish thunderstorm. From that day forward even the quietest clap of thunder sent shivers down Sean's spine.

"Where should we take it?" One of the two young men asked him after sealing the crate, and McReary was brought back to reality for a brief second. He didn't bother to think about it.

"Down into the forward cargo hold, there should be room in the corner for it. If not, just leave it with the rest under the tarp." McReary left them and made his way back to the freighter's superstructure, ascending through the several flights of stairs until he entered the bridge. "How much longer do you figure?"

The navigator was a man of large build, with a beard fit for a lumberjack and the attitude of one too. He looked up at the sound of the voice, acknowledging his superior's presence with a curt grunt before turning back to his charts. "Another day maybe. This damned storm is setting us back. I figure we won't reach Venezuela until… tomorrow evening."

"Damn." McReary swore, and turned to stare out into the darkness beyond the dirty, grime ridden window. He could faintly make out the image of the heavy drops smacking against the glass in a rapid _plup-plup-plup _noise. He turned away just in time to miss the navigator taking in a prolonged swig from his silver flask. "I suppose I should call the buyer then, see if he'll wait one more night for his guns."

McReary was one of the wealthiest arms dealers in Western Europe. He had been for the past three years, since a steady influx of weapons from the PIRA had secured him several illegitimate contracts around the world. On a daily basis, McReary did business with some of the most dangerous terrorist organizations in existence. That particular night he had been taking a large shipment of small arms—mainly assault rifles and submachine guns—to a revolutionary in Venezuela who'd been harassing the government for quite some time and found it appropriate to stage a formal coup. Unfortunately the Venezuelan happened to be a very impatient man with "the _cajones _of a bull," who had demanded the arrival of his order be punctual, otherwise he wouldn't pay. Unfortunately his brain seemed to pale in comparison, and McReary decided not to worry about it. (He'd pay one way or another.) What concerned him was the fact that the Venezuelan government happened to be closing in on his buyer's operation; in another day or two the fool might not be around to refuse payment, especially given his over-inflated ego.

* * *

At that same moment, Hosaam Al-Jaali threw the cocking arm on his 5.45x39mm AKS-74 as the Zodiac launch drew closer and closer to McReary's freighter. It was hard steering such a small craft in such unforgiving waters, but Al-Jaali's man was vigilant in his piloting of the vehicle. Moments later their boat came up alongside the freighter.

With the rifle slung around his back, Al-Jaali waited patiently to see the faint outline of a ladder being thrown over the edge. Reaching forward, he groped around the air in front of him until he felt the object, pulling himself up onto it immediately. Without hesitation he began the climb, dropping onto the deck after reaching the top.

To his left, he saw the man who had thrown the ladder over to them. Al-Jaali couldn't remember the name—the young man of twenty-three had been their contact within McReary's arms ring. Unfortunately, in allowing them passage onto the freighter, he'd outlived his usefulness to them, and Al-Jaali cut him down with a quick burst of fire from his rifle.

"Come now, friends! Our goal lies inside!" He screamed in Arabic as two more men climbed the ladder. Leaving them to catch up with him later, Al-Jaali began a sprint down the length of the deck that took him to a door leading into the superstructure.

* * *

McReary heard it first. It was barely perceptible, with the thunder still booming overhead. But it was there. Out of the corner of his eye he could see it: tiny white tongues of flame flashing like a flickering light bulb in the darkness of night. He knew what it was. It was the telltale sight of a muzzle flash, erupting out of the barrel of a Russian assault rifle. Accompanying it was the telltale staccato stutter of an automatic weapon.

"Bastards." He snarled, snatching the loaded pistol off of the console before turning to exit the bridge.

"What is it?" The navigator asked, still half-drunk from the couple dozen "sips" from his flask. But he didn't get his answer. McReary was out the door and making his way down the staircase towards the source of the gunfire. Realizing the possible danger, the navigator did away with the near-empty flask and searched his hip for the old Browning pistol he took on risky trips like these.

* * *

Al-Jaali turned the corner quickly, already finding it difficult to use his thirty-seven inch rifle in the tight spaces of the ship's innards. It was spacious enough, however, for him to blast the lone guard he came across with a controlled burst. As he stepped over the body, he realized that his objective was a mere twenty-or-so yards down the corridor.

Ahead of him, however, the two men who'd just dumped off their newly packed crate of assault weapons had drawn their own firearms: a pair of Škorpion submachine guns. One arrived in the doorway, and caught sight of Al-Jaali just in time to greet him with a prolonged spray of fire from the barrel of the weapon. But the intruder was fast, and ducked into an alcove on his right as five .32 ACP rounds flew past him.

Seconds later Al-Jaali stuck his head out and responded by hosing down the doorway with a hail of bullets. A few of them clipped the younger of the two men on the shoulder of his firing arm, and sent him reeling back several feet as his gun clattered across the floor—all of this accompanied by a blood-curdling scream of pain and a puff of reddish mist.

The other, uninjured man dropped to his knees to tend to his wounded friend. It was a motion that cost him his life. Al-Jaali sensed his moment of vulnerability and raced down the corridor, flying through the doorway a moment later and blasted the kneeling man at point-blank range with his AKS-74. The head tore apart like a melon, spraying blood and brains across the face of the injured man, who himself earned a few more rounds from Al-Jaali a fraction of a second later.

With both guards dead, the Islamic trespasser turned and scanned the room he was in. It was the forward cargo hold, and it was here that Al-Jaali would find what he was looking for inside a shipping container that had been placed up against the far wall. It was a SADM (Special Atomic Demolition Munition) that had been scrapped by the US Army in 2010. It was, of course, now defunct and not capable of usage. That could be remedied. Al-Jaali beamed at his victory and took the device—it was rectangular and small enough to fit in a briefcase—under his arm while wielded his rifle with the other.

"Hosaam! We must go!" A voice boomed from the stairway that lead up to the deck. Another slightly older man who had accompanied Al-Jaali on the Zodiac ride warned his friend and comrade from the opposite end of the long corridor. Al-Jaali acknowledged his presence and called back in Arabic.

* * *

McReary saw the man who'd just yelled, a pirate he guessed, and raised his pistol as he entered the crew's quarters. He could see the bastard, a dark-skinned fellow in rag-tag clothes with a Kalashnikov knock-off, screaming at someone else from the top of the stairway.

"Son of a bitch!" The Irishman shouted as he pulled the trigger on his pistol, an FN Five-seveN, and sent two 5.7x28mm bullets into the head of his target. The friend of Al-Jaali hadn't even had time to respond when the rounds struck him, exiting just above his right eye and leaving blood spatter on the wall.

He could already hear Al-Jaali's screams of protest from below, and McReary immediately went into a crouching stance in one of the darkened doorways on his left. He hadn't been prepared for the prolonged burst of fire that came when Al-Jaali emptied the remainder of his rifle's magazine in McReary's direction as he came out into the corridor. Recoiling in fear, the gun-runner pulled the trigger once before leaping back into the darkness.

From there it was all a blur. The storm was still raging, making it hard to follow the sound of footsteps or the figure of Al-Jaali sprinting back to the ladder at the bow. McReary attempted to pursue him for the first few seconds that his enemy had ceased firing, but lost him almost immediately. Two minutes later, Hosaam Al-Jaali was safely in his Zodiac launch with the remainder of his small crew, moving farther and farther away from the Irish freighter. It wasn't long after that the rain ceased, leaving the clouds to part several hours later and give McReary's ship an easy ride to Venezuela. But it was an empty victory on his part. The inspection that inevitably followed revealed to him that he'd lost a good four men to the pirates, though none of his product had been stolen. Later he would wonder what their objective had been, though he would never find out.

A/N: I know, it's shorter than I usually write. But this is just setting the stage for the rest of the story. I hope everyone liked it, but moreover I hope you all review! Because that's what helps folks like me in the long run. Feedback people! I need it and I want it. More feedback means better stories for you all to read, so please offer what you can. Even (especially) if you think your opinion doesn't matter, because a lot of times it's little things like spelling or grammar that can make or break a story! Anyway, I'll upload another chapter sometime soon. Later!


	2. In the Heart of Every Man

A/N: This isn't a very action-packed chapter, so I'm sorry if the blood and gore lovers are hoping for something more gritty. Instead, this chapter focuses on something that was never really explored in the books: John Clark's legacy after leaving RAINBOW to Domingo Chavez. In this chapter, you'll find out who takes the title of SIX after Chavez suffers his own health problems. Also, the stage is set for the coming conflict in future chapters. Basically it's a quick chapter with some foreshadowing and recapping from the good ol' "Ryanverse." So without further ado, here you go readers!

-Chapter One-

In the Heart of Every Man...

The new Pakistani President had balls, John Patrick Ryan noted from behind his desk in the Oval Office. Preaching to his people from the television screen on the wall, the recorded video had come straight from the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency after somebody had noted that the newly elected Mohammed Abdul-Basir was saying things in his speeches that would make people nervous. So Ryan and his cabinet had decided to view the footage of the man's post-inaugural speech. To see what they could see, in a way. What they were seeing was scaring them.

"We will, as a nation, vanquish those who are enemies of Allah! To all who would trifle with him, be forewarned!" He boomed in Arabic. "Pakistan will no longer allow your sin to plague this world!"

"Is he talking about us?" Vice President Robert Jackson asked from his seat on the blood red sofa. The question was the one all others in the room were asking themselves, and Jackson had a talent for saying things that no one else would. "As my daddy would say, 'them's fightin' words.' What do you think Jack?"

"I think I don't know." Was Ryan's answer, and the words came out slowly. He didn't like not knowing things, because as _his_ father would have said: "knowledge is power." Maybe it was that, or the fact that before being the National Security Advisor and eventually the President, he'd been an analyst at the CIA himself, where his job _was_ knowing things. "I think it sounds very…"

It was time for Director of Central Intelligence Aaron Cash to speak up. "Very 'radical' sir? I'd have to agree."

"Actually Aaron, I was going to say 'interesting.' But I suppose 'radical' works just as well." Ryan looked around the room and saw the agreement in everyone's eyes. _Why is that? _He asked himself. But he knew why in reality. It was the same reason people thought letting Malik Nadal Hasan be a soldier was a bad idea. It was because he was a Muslim. There were other reasons, yes, but why did people _really_ not want him serving alongside their sons, fathers, brothers, and uncles? It was because he was a Muslim, and a radical one. _Stereotyping becomes the new fortune teller in America. Just lovely._ "What do you suppose we do?" It was a rhetorical question.

Cash was the one to reply again. "Send an e-mail to his press secretary and tell her to proofread his speeches better? In all seriousness sir, there's not much we can do. In the peoples' eyes, this is no different than a Christian claiming to be against atheists."

"Never thought I'd see the day when stereotyping can save lives and political correctness cripples us." Jackson quipped, staring into the floor. He, like many, was in amazement at the times they lived in. "Jack, I think the best course of action would be to just have your old pals at CIA to keep an eye on him. After all, it worked on Putin."

At that was what they would do. Ryan eventually decided to put Abdul-Basir on the agency's watch list. Little did they know exactly what his intentions were, and that in the months to come stereotyping would save them all.

* * *

The Commander of USSOCOM (United States Special Operations Command) was a man named Vincent Palmer, and his military career had just reached its high peak. With the absence of Domingo Chavez, who had suffered a heart attack the previous week, RAINBOW was without a director. Thanks to a joint committee of UN and NATO officials overseen by the President Ryan, Palmer had been appointed as the organization's newest director, and would assume the title of RAINBOW SIX that very day. The UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter came down slowly onto the helipad that lay next to the garrison's primary airstrip. As the flight engineer threw the sliding doors open, Palmer set foot on the grounds of the RAINBOW headquarters and breathed in the brisk morning air of Hereford.

After the vacancy of the SAS, RAINBOW had assumed control over their former headquarters and completely settled into the installation they had only partly occupied before. This was around the time that, thanks to the unhindered efforts and volleying of former director John Terrence Clark before his stepping down, RAINBOW saw worldwide recognition as the premiere counter-terror force in the world. In addition to the command post in Hereford, RAINBOW went on to found separate divisions in the United States, Germany, France, Israel, and Italy. Other national institutions were being sought, but government was a funny thing, and further expansion was halted for a number of reasons. It was then that Domingo Chavez adopted the name of SIX and sought an international spec ops conference for cross-training between the world's best units. This dream became a reality, and in 2010, the Foreign Tactics Directorate was born, resulting in a _permanent _initiative to institute other operational tradecrafts in addition to those of hostage rescue.

It was this legacy that Palmer had sought to continue. He would make sure the growing power and influence of RAINBOW would not end there, and it was his ultimate goal to make the organization the single most well-known name in special operations. Seconds after exiting the vehicle, he was met by a near-bald man with a strong jaw line and a powerful figure.

"General Palmer?" He asked, then followed it with: "My name is Edward Price. I'm the Deputy Director here at RAINBOW. It's nice to finally meet you."

Palmer was a man with his own talents, and those talents lied in the power of his mind rather than his muscle. His brown dress uniform which bore a salad bar of merits and decorations was the one he'd worn for years during the War on Terror. Ribbons such as those given for service in operations like Enduring Freedom and Iraqi Freedom dotted the rows of color on the breast of his blazer. His handshake was one of enormous authority, and say as one might, he was no less than a grizzled war vet.

"So you're RAINBOW FIVE. Good. I don't suppose you could show me to my office?" Was his curt reply. Palmer was one who believed conversations were better left for environments like offices and hallways rather than next to the thumping sound of a helicopter's rotors. On their way to the lobby, Palmer took notice of the groups of operatives on the track for morning PT. Among them he saw the most fit people he'd ever laid eyes on, and for a moment felt a bit intimidated. He pushed the thought out of his head.

* * *

"The world's a melting pot for terrorism sir." Price began as the slides lit up the screen. "As you know, it's our job to stop them. In the past six months alone, we've seen a particularly violent surge in terrorist activity. Incidents like the bombing in Sweden and the sinking of that cruise ship in the Atlantic are good examples, but they only scratch the surface."

"I see." Was all Palmer could say.

Price saw the disinterest in his commander's eyes, and decided to change the subject. "RAINBOW also partakes in operations against arm-traffickers and weapons dealers. These individuals are highly dangerous and a serious threat to the safety of innocent civilians around the world. Their participation in the support of terrorists makes them just as much guilty as the men who pull the triggers. Just a half a year ago an arms dealer was robbed in the middle of the Atlantic as well. The thieves were suspected terrorists who didn't feel like paying for their goods, and they stole a inoperable SADM bomb from the dealer."

At this moment the slide changed to a photograph of a man of Irish ancestry who looked just as dangerous as Price had described. Fortunately, he appeared to be in handcuffs with Venezuelan military personnel escorting him to a plane. "Fortunately." The deputy director went on. "This particular arms dealer was apprehended in a sting set up by RAINBOW. We had our men contact him posing as a Venezuelan revolutionary, and set up a meet in which we apprehended him."

This briefing went on for another hour before Price left the new director to assume his position and begin his duties. Palmer was shown to his new office, and shook hands with the woman who would be his secretary. After assuring her that he'd be fine for the moment, he brewed some coffee in the third floor office's pot, and went to work familiarizing himself with RAINBOW's administrative needs.

* * *

Patricia Doris Clark, as she was once known, slept soundly at her husband's bedside the entire night. The doctor's explained that Chavez's heart attack had been debilitating but—thankfully—was not fatal. It didn't matter. When asked to leave she calmly told the nurse that there was little to no chance that she was leaving him until he was fully healed. So the medical staff had given up, finally coming to the decision that her presence would do more good than bad. Little John Connor Chavez, on the other hand, had school tomorrow morning and was promptly whisked away when it was certain that the elder Chavez would survive.

He heard the door to his room open before he saw it, and opened his eyes just in time to catch RAINBOW FIVE walk in. Price took a seat in the free chair opposite Patricia's side, and shook his head when Chavez motioned to wake her up.

"Let her sleep. Just wanted to drop by to say hi." FIVE assured. The assumption on Chavez's part was that Price had come for some kind of briefing; an odd thought considering his term as SIX was officially over. "How you doin' Ding?"

"I'm alright Eddie. How's RAINBOW holding up? That new director in yet?" Ding asked. Price couldn't help but laugh. It was always business with Domingo Chavez.

The deputy director nodded, still smiling. "Everything's fine, relax. The new blood is handling desk duty just marvelously."

Chavez grunted his response. His main concern in life for the past few years had been making sure RAINBOW stayed as prosperous and successful as possible. In a way, it had become like a second child to him. After all, the organization's first and most fitting SIX, John Clark, had been like a father to Chavez. And that was before it had been made official, when Chavez had the _nerve_ to marry Clark's daughter Patsy. (A fact that Clark never had any problem "tormenting" him over.) When Clark had left the position as SIX to Chavez, he'd left behind a legacy that Chavez was damned sure he'd never let die. So leading RAINBOW had become something of an ode to a great man. And now here came along this new fella' Palmer! How was Chavez supposed to be sure that he'd keep the group's best interests at heart? It was a source of much stress for Domingo Chavez.

"Ding, I'm serious. RAINBOW's going to be just fine without you. I'll make sure of that." Price assured him. His duty at RAINBOW FIVE held considerable power, and if at any time he felt that Vincent Palmer was bringing the organization into a downward spiral, he could call upon the NATO/UN committee to remove him from his position, in which case Price would take over as interim director. "How's family life?"

"Patsy hasn't left the room yet. The doctors keep having to brig her food from the cafeteria." Chavez explained, looking down at the loving wife who'd given up three days of pay to get off from work to stay beside him. He loved her for her willingness to stay by his side, and knew that it was because of his own willingness to do the same for her. "Johnny's doing good in school too. Damn genius that kid. Takes after his granddad."

There were smiles in the room.

The two comrades spent a couple minutes talking, and Price left to return home to his own wife. He'd left the room as quietly as he'd come in, closing the door gently behind him as he disappeared into the adjacent hallway. The sound of the door clicking raised Patricia from her gentle slumber.

"What's that?" She asked groggily, not bothering to bring her head up from her husband's chest.

Chavez shook his head and brushed a hair from her face. "Nothing sweetheart." He kissed her forehead a moment later and laid back as she went back to sleep. He followed suit, closing his eyes after spending another minute staring at the ceiling.

A/N: You know what I'm going to say folks. I need reviews. Not 'cause I like to be told how good I am, but because I'd rather know how much I screw up :P So if I did anything with this chapter that you didn't like or didn't understand, let me know in a review. That being said, keep it civil. Have a Merry Christmas folks. I appreciate all who read. Peace!


	3. Breaking and Entering

A/N: This chapter might seem a little fragmented. That's because this one and the next were supposed to be one single chapter, but I decided while writing it that I'd break it into two. (The draft was a good nine pages on Microsoft Word, which is much larger than what the first two were.) But for some reason there was a problem while uploading and I could only get this one onto the site. Which means you'll all just have to wait a bit longer for Chapter 3, since I was going to upload both of them at the same time. (Again, since they were originally one.) So enjoy, things will start heating up.

-Chapter Two-

Breaking and Entering

Boris Demidenko sipped his lukewarm coffee and read the newspaper. It seemed Russia was finally starting to understand capitalism, and for once the economy was proving beneficial in the region. The gangsters and prostitutes who'd taken over following the initial collapse of communism were now being ousted by the strengthened militia in Moscow and across the country. It was nice, Demidenko noted. Part of his life had been spent under the oppressive rule of the USSR, the other half in the subtle chaos of post-Cold War capitalism. Now he was being given a chance to live what Americans called a "normal life."

Demidenko was a mercenary. He had brief experience serving with the Russian Spetsnaz, and after that he'd become drawn to the freelance service of private military companies. The firm he currently served was called Blackwater Worldwide, who's new office in Russia was proving to be a great success. Demidenko's place in the organization was a lowly one, but one which he was happy to fill. Currently, the Russian government needed his help in keeping watch over the exclusion zone of Chernobyl. Or at least, its borders. He was far enough away that he didn't need to worry about any real precautions, but close enough that he could effectively keep his portion of perimeter safe. The road leading to the disaster zone was commonly left untouched, and so most days at his outpost were spent reading the newspaper and watching cruddy post-Cold War television. _Ah the beauties of American life. _He thought while sipping his coffee.

But today would be different, he realized when he heard the sound of approaching tires. A quick look out the window told him that a truck was driving down the abandoned road, its headlights cutting through the midday fog like a knife. Perplexed, Demidenko pulled the Blackwater baseball cap that came with the uniform down over his head and reached for the Benelli M4 semi-automatic shotgun on the table. He'd have to be careful introducing himself to his new visitors. All kinds of unruly folk came to Chernobyl for their radioactive goodies. _Looks like you're going to see some action after all. _He strode out of the outpost's single building a moment later.

* * *

Al-Jaali sneered at the sight of Boris Demidenko emerging from the outpost with the shotgun in hand. He was, in truth, a man who's heritage found its way back to Afghanistan, and he was not particularly fond of the Russians. A barbaric race, he'd always thought, just as they had once thought of him as barbaric. This would be no great expense for him.

"Remember. Keep it down." Al-Jaali instructed the man in the driver's seat. Ahmed was a good boy, Al-Jaali thought. A young man, really, almost twenty years old. He'd do fine for this mission. "Wait until he comes up to the window, then do it."

Ahmed nodded frantically, his mind trapped in a constant state of fearful anticipation. His left hand remained on the steering wheel of the covered flatbed truck, while his right firmly gripped a Glock 17 handgun hidden under the dash. With every step Demidenko took towards their vehicle, Ahmed grew more and more frightened.

"What business do you two have all the way out here?" Demidenko asked somewhat accusingly. When he didn't receive an answer, the Russian merely gripped his shotgun tighter. "Well?"

It happened in an instant. Ahmed whipped his right had up and stuck the pistol out the window, closing his eyes as he pulled the trigger. A second later his foot slammed down on the gas pedal, and the flatbed tore down the road, crashing through the flimsy chainlink gate on its way into the exclusion zone.

Demidenko had barely seen the weapon come up when he was blinded by the muzzle flash. The driver had shot him at point blank range, a single nine millimeter bullet ripping through his jaw and leaving him coiling on the gravel road. His hands covered the grisly wound while blood gushed out onto his palms and down onto the rugged ground. His shotgun was several feet away now, but that wasn't his primary concern. He reached for the radio on his belt, but found it to be a useless gesture. He'd left it in the outpost, he realized begrudgingly. It wouldn't have made a difference; his jaw was now fractured beyond repair. He couldn't utter coherent words, and a call for help would have been almost impossible.

* * *

Jim Charleston was the man in charge of maintaining the Chernobyl perimeter. The men who guarded the exclusion zone now consisted primarily of Blackwater mercenaries stationed in Russia, and his responsibility was making sure everything remained safe. To this end, his men had kept to a radio check-in system. At regular time intervals, each post was required to make a quick time check over their portable radios. Any missed check-in would, according to protocol, be treated as breach in security and an armed recovery team would be sent in to see what the problem was.

"Sir!" The junior officer to Charleston said as he poked his head in the door. "We've got a possible disturbance in sector nine. Our man there didn't check in as usual."

Charleston looked up from his desk and lowered the phone he'd been talking on. "Who's the guy on duty there?"

"Boris Demidenko." The junior answered quickly, and Charleston nodded.

"Alright, send a team over to make sure everything's kosher."

* * *

Charleston's department had about fifteen armored humvees from the US Army in its land-based fleet, all set up with a machine gun mounted on the roof. Two men armed with MP5/10 submachine guns took a brisk jog over to their assigned vehicle and clambered into the two front seats before the driver started the ignition. The jeep left the Blackwater camp less than a minute later, on its way to the ninth of ten security sectors set up around the exclusion zone's.

Ten minutes later it was there. The driver brought the humvee to a stop along the side of the gravel road as the passenger, a man named Michael Barnes, climbed out with his MP5/10 and raced to where Boris Demidenko lied in a sprawled out heap ten feet ahead of their vehicle.

He was dead. Barnes guessed it was due to the blood loss, seeing as there was a rather ugly wound on the lower right side of his face and a sizable pool of encrusted brown staining the gravel around him. Joshua Miller, the driver, climbed into the machine gun seat and kept watch on the outside as Barnes went in to clear the outpost. Thirty seconds later he came back out, his submachine gun hanging loosely on its strap as he walked quickly back to the car.

"What the hell happened here?" Miller asked his partner when he came back.

"Damned if I know. Best I can tell is we got some thieves on the inside." Barnes ventured. He explained what he'd seen, which wasn't much. Demidenko was dead, shot once in the face. There was a nine millimeter casing on the ground not far from marks in the gravel that had to be where a truck had spun its tires. That, and the fact that the gate had been smashed to hell, told both men all they needed to know. They had hostiles within the exclusion zone, possibly on their way to pick up some radioactive materials. "I radioed in the report to the boss. He's going to forward it to regional, and we'll know what to do from there. Until then we're to stay here and keep watch."

"Got it."

* * *

Bill Tawney sat with Lyov Mokashev in the small café several blocks from RAINBOW's Hereford garrison and headquarters. Tawney was the head of RAINBOW's intelligence department, and Mokashev happened to be a rising star in the Russians' FSB, the successor to the USSR's former KGB. This made Mokashev one of the people to know when it came to Russian intelligence, and it was because of this that to two men were close friends. Mokashev was in Britain for a conference with SIS officials, and had taken the opportunity to meet up with Tawney for lunch. They had a delicious meal of roast beef sandwiches and club soda, over which they carefully discussed events within each others organizations.

"I hear you folks have a new boss." Mokashev said, swirling the cola like vodka in its glass, watching the half-melted ice cubes swish around in the beverage. "You're man Chavez had a heart attack I hear. Will he be okay?"

Tawney thought Mokashev's English was superb for a man who'd studied the language for just shy of a year. He nodded enthusiastically, with a smile. "Yes, Ding will be fine. The man stared death in the face before in greater forms than that."

"I see." Mokashev grinned back. "We have men like that. Nothing seems to get to them, no?"

"You said it."

A cell phone went off, and Mokashev cursed—in English—and answered the phone. "What is it? What? _Gospodi_, are you serious? Still? Okay. Fine, I'll be at the airport in fifteen minutes." He hung up after a moment. "Shit!"

"What's wrong?" Tawney asked, a bit amused at his friends agitated persona. _Little blighter curses like an Englishman._

"Somebody broke into Chernobyl. They blew away the mercenary keeping watch at the outpost and drove through the damned gate! His pals found him dead in the street afterwards, and their calling President Iltchenko to see what to do." Mokashev shook his head in disbelief and dropped the phone back in the breast pocket of his jacket.

The head of intelligence at RAINBOW listened with genuine interest and wondered aloud: "I wonder if the old fart would let RAINBOW handle it. We could have a team in Chernobyl within the hour." It was hypothetical.

Mokashev, who took it as a direct request, shrugged as he stood from his seat. "I suppose I could meet with my superiors and have them ask. Chances are Iltchenko won't want to send in the Spetsnaz for the political risks. I suppose this is what an election year is like in America."

"I wouldn't know." Tawney retorted.

The two men paid their bill together, and Mokashev was whisked away by his personal driver to the nearest airport, which had a nice private jet waiting to take him back to Moscow. Tawney took his own car, a Jaguar XF, back to the garrison and made his way back to the office. RAINBOW FIVE would want to hear about this.

* * *

Eddie Price hated deskwork. He missed the days of working with Chavez in the field, commanding troops like a real military man and fighting with an automatic weapon instead of a pen. The pile of paperwork on his desk was now a more hated enemy than those he'd killed in the past, well, perhaps he didn't dislike his new post _that_ severely; Price had little sympathy for murderers. He heard the knock on his office door around one in the afternoon and answered with a disgruntled "Come in."

Tawney came in quietly, shutting the door behind him and taking a seat without being asked. "Sir, I just met with a friend of mine in the FSB. You're not going to believe what he just heard."

"Spare me the suspense." Grumbled Price, who removed the prescription reading glasses and cast away the ball-point pen he'd just scrawled out his signature with.

"It's Chernobyl. One of their mercenary rent-a-cop got himself killed by some trespassers. The bad guys busted down the gate and disappeared." That earned FIVE's interest. "The Russians are trying to figure out what to do now, but you know Iltchenko. He'll beat around every bush from Moscow to London before he really decides to do _anything_."

It was a political truth. Russian President Aleksei Iltchenko had proven to be quite the pansy when it came to taking military action, which was odd considering his service in the Russian Air Force. There would be no decision for hours, and by that time the trespassers might be long gone. Both men knew that the PMC there would be smart enough to secure the breached outpost, but people who stole radioactive materials often proved to be quite the crafty sort, and there was no assurance that they'd be neutralized or captured without direct intervention.

"I'll tell SIX." Price concluded.

* * *

Al-Jaali was the one who kept watch. He was competent enough went it came to use with an Kalashnikov rifle, and Ahmed was just along for the dirty work anyway. He watched the nearby road with a steady eye as the young man used a shovel to unearth what they hoped was a full casket of nuclear waste. Such materials was just what they'd need for their current goals.

Ahmed set the shovel down some seconds later and cursed audibly. "It is not here Hosaam. Where else should we look?"

The senior man shared in his companions profanity and deviated from his task of watching the road. He walked over to the open tailgate of their flatbed and checked the map they'd brought. He cursed yet again and draped his rifle against rear fender. There were too many spots to check, and they had not enough time. He pointed randomly at one of the nearest marked spots on the map. "Try there."

* * *

Palmer opened the door for Price when he'd heard the knock at his own door; their offices were adjacent to each other, on the third floor of the headquarters building. RAINBOW SIX welcomed his deputy director and beckoned for him to take a seat before moving to do so himself behind the high oak desk.

"What can I do for you Mr. Price?' Palmer asked politely, leaning forward and folding his hands as a scrutinizing teacher might do while addressing a group of eager students.

RAINBOW FIVE cleared his throat awkwardly. Something about Vincent Palmer rubbed him the wrong way, but he dismissed that thought. This man was his boss, and he'd have to get used to that. "Sir, Bill Tawney found out something you might want to know." He recounted the story of Demidenko's violent death and the Blackwater response.

"No." Palmer replied when Price asked to have a team sent to Chernobyl to intercept the thieves. "I'm sorry Mr. Price, I can't authorize that kind of action."

Price suddenly knew what it was that bothered him about Palmer. "Excuse me sir?"

"Mr. Price, sending a team to Chernobyl on this kind of witch hunt would be taking unnecessary risks with the organization's manpower. It would wholly irresponsible of me to do so. This is the Russians' problem, and they will deal with it." Palmer looked down and flipped open the manila folder on his desk, and began fiddling with some of the papers as though Price wasn't even there. He looked back up a few moments later. "Is there something else I can help you with? Mr. Price?"

"Sir, with all due respect, is this bloody joke?" Price retorted vehemently.

"Excuse me-"

"_Excuse me_, sir!" Price demanded. "Mr. Palmer, RAINBOW's primary objective is counter-terrorism. We have first-hand reports from a foreign intelligence agency that tell us that unidentified hostiles have killed a mercenary guard and forced their way into an area full of radioactive materials. Sir, this is as much a threat of terrorism as a group of insurgents with AKs." _Bloody hell, for all we know that might be exactly what this is!_

Palmer's response was calm and direct. "Mr. Price, my understanding of my duties as RAINBOW SIX is that my direction of the organization is necessary in order to maximize our efficiency as a counter-terror organization. That being said, I cannot authorize any military action without further intelligence and the cooperation of the nation's government."

"That's bull, sir!" FIVE near-shouted. "I've been with this group through two acting directors, and in that time we've staged a number of operations on Russian soil. Iltchenko will play ball, sir, I know it. And I also know that if we don't act now we're giving these bastards a chance to get away with nuclear materials. The least we can do is contact the Russians."

"If they need our help, then they will contact us."

_The hell they will! _Price mused. He'd never been so frustrated before serving in RAINBOW. _This is bloody… there's no damned words! I've never seen such a misguided… _

RAINBOW FIVE was shown out of Palmer's office within another minute. What he did next was the first act of true aggression he'd ever shown toward a fellow RAINBOW operative. Sitting down at his desk, he rubbed his brow and cursed loud enough that it traveling through the walls bordering their offices.

A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed it. I would ask for reviews, but anyone who's read this far probably knows what I want by now. Again, if this one seems off, Chapter 3 should fix that. Until next time everyone, I'll see ya' later!


	4. Broken Arrow

A/N: Good grief I had trouble uploading this chapter. Anyway, this is the second half of Chapter 2, which, again, was originally written as one whole chapter. So consider this like a second part to the last one. This will conclude what took place in Chapter 2, and will do a bit to set the stage for the next few chapters which will come in due process. I hope you all enjoy it now that it's up. And who knows, maybe if I'm in good spirits I'll upload Chapter 4 today or tomorrow, just as a little gift for anyone who's enjoyed the story thus far. Hope everyone had a good new year. Welcome to 2010!

-Chapter Three-

Broken Arrow

Two hours later, Mokashev explained to his own boss that RAINBOW was willing to take action against the trespassers. By now the Blackwater mercenaries guarding the perimeter were being relieved by their comrades, but Charleston's office was to short-handed to competently maintain an effective perimeter around the entire exclusion zone.

A half an hour into this briefing, a Russian satellite passed over the site. The television camera feed was linked directly to a conference room in Lubyanka Square. Mokashev was among the several men who watched the recording. The feed showed nothing for the majority of the time they spent viewing it, until two moving blotches of color on the screen struck them as odd. Right nearby was a solid black rectangle.

"That looks like a truck." Muttered one of the older men in the group. It was, in fact, the covered flatbed that had plowed through the gate at Demidenko's outpost. "That man is holding a rifle. My God, it's them. These are the bastards we're looking for."

Mokashev nodded. "It is them. They look like they're trying to dig something up. No doubt a stockpile of nuclear materials." He let that sink in. "We need to do something. Contact the men in Britain, tell we need RAINBOW's assistance."

"To hell with them all!" Another one of the older heads around the table barked. "Just one of our finest Spetsnaz could handle this pathetic disturbance. This is hardly a threat worthy of our concern. The FSB could handle this on their own."

Most men in the room cast their gaze towards the head of the table, where President Aleksei Iltchenko sat thinking silently.

"I do not know. We are looking at a nuclear threat. What if they already have a device put together? They could get the materials they need and detonate it when we try to intercept them." The Russian President frowned. "This is too risky. Perhaps Lyov is correct. Maybe we should contact RAINBOW."

President Iltchenko was a man of much combat experience, but conflict was not something he enjoyed. Least of all on the political stage, where conflict meant an unhappy populace who would be all too happy to call for his removal from office. That wasn't something he wanted to happen, and to this end his political advisors constantly told him that taking the safe option was always a good idea. Unfortunately, political advisors are often not qualified to advise on matters of national security, and so their solutions to national security problems were not always good ones. This was one of those times. Iltchenko didn't want to do something stupid like sending a Spetsnaz team to Chernobyl, and have them blown up by a possible nuclear device. _In addition_, he remembered, _to the people who still live in that damned exclusion zone. _That had been a complicated matter involving the 1986 disaster. Officially, no one was permitted to reside in the seventeen mile exclusion zone around Chernobyl. (This was why Blackwater mercenaries were paid to stand guard outside its perimeter; those seeking to get inside the exclusion zone from the outside world were often those who wished to visit "resettler" family in the forsaken areas, or shady types with no legal business who wanted to benefit from the stock of nuclear material that still remained untouched.) If the Russian government provoked the detonation of a nuclear device, then the old fools who still chose to live in the exclusion zone would be killed. Which was why calling RAINBOW was a good idea: if an international military organization got the people killed which, regardless, was still not a good thing it would mean less political ramifications for Iltchenko.

His more senior officials did not agree with this ruling. Many of them still lived in a world where the old ways of the USSR were still law.

"I would have to agree." Mokashev nodded, leaning back in his chair. "I propose we call RAINBOW."

* * *

RAINBOW SIX answered the phone less than a second after it had began to ring. The red secure telephone on Palmer's desk was encrypted using the best algorithms known to the American National Security Agency. It was because of this that if anyone should call on that phone, it usually meant something very important was happening and very important people where calling to inform him. Or ask for his organization's he was indeed already thinking of it as _his_ organization assistance.

"SIX here." Palmer answered. He put the phone to his ear and waited for his response.

"Lieutenant General Palmer, my name is Aleksei Iltchenko, you know me as the President of the Russian Federation." An awkward silence. "We have a situation you might have heard about. Two and a half hours ago, two men killed a mercenary hired to guard the perimeter of the Chernobyl exclusion zone and disappeared inside. We located them via satellite uplink just a little while ago. I am hesitant to act on them with our own military power, so I was wondering if your organization could handle the matter for us."

The commander of RAINBOW could hear Eddie Price's pleading in his ear again, though RAINBOW FIVE was in the next room working on training exercise reports. He composed himself within a second and cleared his throat. "I'm very sorry Mr. President, but RAINBOW's jurisdiction only extends to direct, confirmed acts of terrorism. What you believe is happening in Chernobyl is merely supposition, and without further evidence I'm not willing to risk RAINBOW's assets on a wild goose chase."

Iltchenko's mind did a double-take, and the Russian President sat dumbfounded in his chair several hundred miles away in Moscow. "General, I don't understand. RAINBOW has operated without such confirmation before, why can't you launch an intelligence gathering operation? Please, just send us a couple of operatives, just to find out what they're doing."

"I'm sorry Mr. President." In Palmer's eyes there was nothing more to discuss. The conversation was ended with a swift replacing of the phone on the machine, and Vincent Palmer returned to reading over the intelligence documents from Tawney's office. There were, in his opinion, much more important things to worry about than a couple of bandits in no man's land.

* * *

Eddie Price had listened to the conversation, his ear right next to the scant opening between the doorframe and the door. He'd been on his way to restate his argument to SIX when he'd heard Palmer answer the secure line, and so he'd stopped to listen. A minute later he couldn't believe what he'd heard. It was complete bullshit, he felt. Palmer was claiming this was a minimal threat, but why couldn't he realize that missing nuclear material could make for an even bigger threat in the long run?

Was it possible that he was saying these things on purpose?

Was it possible he was denying the threat on purpose?

No, Price turned and sat back down. The thoughts were out of his head just as quickly as they'd come to him. How could he suspect something like that. _Without evidence. _He corrected himself. It was always possible that people weren't who they said they were, but suspecting something like that without reason was dangerous. Palmer had no reason to do something like that, to hinder their operational capabilities. If anything he was to suffer from it; his reputation was on the line with his direction of the organization.

Still, it was quite a curious thing, wasn't it? Why was Palmer so adamant on making sure they didn't go to Chernobyl? Was he perhaps doing so for the same reasons as Iltchenko? That was certainly more likely than the idea that Palmer was purposely keeping them from going on. He just didn't want to risk the lives of his fellow RAINBOW personnel. _But he's a military commander._ Price's mind retorted, playing the devil's advocate, as usual. _He has to know that here are always risks. He can't just keep us inside like an over-protective father._

Price leaned back in his office chair. There were too many questions for any supposition like that. All he could do was sit back and watch things unfold. He tried to get back to his paperwork, but an overactive mind usually prevents things from getting done, and it held true here. RAINBOW FIVE was simply left to speculate, something he didn't like doing.

* * *

Aleksei Gennady Iltchenko hung up and stared at the conference table, his eyes scanning over the paper before him with an empty gaze. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Hadn't Mokashev just guaranteed him that RAINBOW would "play ball," as the Americans said? Why in the world was this fool denying him assistance? Wasn't that RAINBOW's role in the world? Wasn't it their policy to render help to those who didn't have the means or circumstances to help themselves? He was genuinely angry now. What the _hell_ kind of political game was this?

"Sir!" One of the other men in the room bellowed. "Aleksei, the screen! Look!"

It took a moment, but Iltchenko came back to reality and quickly turned his attention to the satellite feed. The truck, the flatbed that had taken armed men into the exclusion zone was now mobile, on its way down the road that lead back to the outpost that Boris Demidenko had been murdered at. The President of the Russian Federation swore blindly at the sight and looked around the room for anyone that could give him an answer. What the hell were they supposed to do now?

"Give the word! We can still send the Spetsnaz in, they can be at Demidenko's post in minutes!" The senior man screamed. He pounded his fist against the table with authority that Lenin would have been proud of and demanded his president's cooperation. "Do it!"

Iltchenko simply sat there, staring around in a catatonic state. The political burden was still too heavy, but what choice did they have? Men, possible terrorists in any case, were about to leave Chernobyl likely with a stockpile of radioactive materials, something they could use to construct a nuclear device with. That wasn't good for anybody. _But neither are dead commandos._

* * *

"What is that?" Ahmed asked from the driver's seat. Al-Jaali narrowed his eyes and peered through the windshield. About a mile up ahead he saw it, at the gate they'd broken through. It was a vehicle, with something on top.

_A jeep, with a machine gunner. But is that Spetsnaz… or the mercenaries? Perhaps they responded to our shooting of their friend._ He snorted at the sight of it and checked his AKS-74. Moving the selector off "safe," he opened the passenger's side door and moved himself closer to the cold air rushing by. "Drive through. Don't slow down, just go. I'll handle this."

* * *

Miller saw the dot on the horizon and did the same, peering as far as he could and cursing when he realized what that speck was. "They're coming back. Damn fools." He readied his machine gun and got ready. If the morons wanted to play chicken, they'd play.

Neither him nor Barnes were ready for what came when the flatbed approached. Just before it passed through the busted gate, Hosaam Al-Jaali emerged from the front seat, aiming his Kalashnikov over the top of the cabin and the door, hosing down the humvee in automatic fire while he screamed something in furious Arabic.

"Shit!" Miller cursed and ducked back inside the vehicle, hearing bullets ricochet of the armor plating and not daring to com back up until the truck passed.

Barnes reacted differently. Having seen the danger coming he'd taken cover near the humvee's rear bumper and brought his MP5/10 off "safe." As soon as Al-Jaali started opening up on them, he was returning fire. Barnes aimed carefully, firing short, controlled bursts at the windshield. He could have sworn he'd hit the driver.

Several seconds later Al-Jaali withdrew into the truck's cabin and pulled the door shut behind him. He reached under the dash and removed a second magazine for the rifle, trading it out for the empty one. As soon as he looked over, he cringed. Ahmed was now dead, having taken three ten millimeter rounds to the face and neck. There was glass all over the dashboard, and Ahmed's foot was still on the gas pedal. Moving quickly, Al-Jaali wrenched open the driver's side door and pushed the young man's corpse out of the truck as he moved to take over. He brought the vehicle to a turn just before it swerved offroad.

* * *

Russian FSB recovered the body of Ahmed a half an hour later after the Blackwater mercenaries reported their conflict to Charleston. Mokashev saw it himself after it came in. An autopsy was not necessary, and would not have been performed regardless. The only thing on their list of things to do was to identify the bastard and find out if any nuclear materials had been taken. They had the proper authorities combing through the exclusion zone for that.

"Yes William." He told his cell phone after leaving the room that young Ahmed's body had been dropped off in. "I'll relay all the information we gather to you as soon as we get it. Of course. Goodbye."

* * *

Tawney hung up the phone and sighed. He didn't know why they were doing this, whatever it was they _were_ doing. He looked over at Price and nodded. "Okay. Anything FSB finds out about the incident, they'll send it to us."

RAINBOW FIVE nodded approvingly. It was nice to execute some of his political power every now and then. As an international group, RAINBOW had authority wherever it was that people liked them. It also didn't hurt that the Russians owed them some after the several incidents that RAINBOW had offered assistance in.

It was times like this that Price wondered just how dangerous the world was. They had terrorists out there there was no doubt in his mind that they _were_ terrorists and they had radioactive material. They could make a bomb with that, and if there were terrorists with a bomb, then there was no telling how many people were in danger. _And, _Price reminded himself, _when there's people in danger, it's our job to help them._

A/N: Things are getting a little crazy huh? The next chapter will be even more riveting, or at least I'll try to make it so. I hope everyone liked it, and reviews are welcome. I'm not going to beg, since it's already obvious that I'm desperate for criticism. Have a good day!


	5. The Appropriate Channels

A/N: Got-dangit! I have _got_ to get better at distributing material throughout chapters more. As is with the last two, the following two chapters were originally intended to be one, but once I start writing it's hard to stop, and I ended up with these two fragmented pieces of work. Oh boy! Anyway, I am happy to receive my first review for Rainbow Six: Black Sheep, from a wonderfully flattering author named OrisounAsh. (Of whom I will soon return the favor, by reading some of her work as well! :D) And yes, as she mentioned in her review, a couple sentences were turned into run-ons by the fact that I had to switch over to WordPad when the Microsoft Word document for Chapter Three would not freaking upload onto the document manager, for some truly unholy reason. (As such, WordPad does _not_ have the... ahem... "hyphen-thingies," that are used to include parenthetical statements.) But back to the story! I give you Chapter Four, hoping that you'll all enjoy it and offer your input on just how much splitting these into two chapters has RUINED the flow. But I digress, please enjoy.

-Chapter Four-

The Appropriate Channels

He walked into his office in the subtle warmth of the early morning, just as the sun was gracing the sky with its steady advent on the horizon. Taking a seat behind the large ornate desk set in the back of the room, he placed his briefcase on the ground and turned to pick up the phone receiver. Putting it to his ear, he dialed out the number written on the small scrap of paper from his pocket and waited out the ringer.

"Yes?" A voice answered.

"Have you done it yet?" He asked.

There was a brief silence. "Not yet. We're waiting for our men inside to give us the word. Once we get it, we'll head in and grab the target."

"Tell me again how you're going to keep his disappearance secret?" The man behind the desk asked, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder as he opened the briefcase and rifled through the papers inside.

"Ah, now if we told you, it would not be a surprise." The voice retorted. "Would it?"

He nodded to himself and clicked his pen as he went to work on the morning paperwork. "I suppose not. Call me then when it is done."

"That will not be necessary. _Allahu akbar._" And then he hung up.

* * *

Iltchenko walked through the Kremlin on his way to the office. With him was the Chairman of the State Duma, who was to speak before the lower house of the Russian parliament that very day. There was much that needed to be discussed before then, and Iltchenko was still trying to control the political fallout from his failure to act on the Chernobyl thieves. It had been two months since they'd escaped with what had been confirmed to be a small amount of radioactive materials.

"The press is tearing you apart Aleksei." The Chairman stated sardonically. "Parliament is not happy about those Arabs who got away with the nuclear ingredients for their bomb. Even the Americans are getting fidgety."

"Did Lyov Mokashev ever find the bastard who leaked it to the media?" Iltchenko asked.

The Chairman shook his head. "No. Probably a leak in FSB, he says. Can't be anybody high up; the source was too low. That Ryan fellow's canary trap was genius."

They strode into his office and took a seat around the small table near the wall, and Iltchenko brewed them both some coffee. He would have preferred vodka, like any good Russian, but it was too early in the morning for heavy drinking—that, and he needed his sobriety for the political conferences that were scheduled for later. It would be a long day, he realized ruefully.

An hour later the Chairman shook hands with his president and receded from the office. Iltchenko retired to his desk and donned his reading glasses to sign some contracts before looking over the speech his press secretary had concocted.

Then the phone rang. Cursing like a madman he set his glasses on the desktop and reached across the desk for the secure line sitting beside his reading lamp, almost knocking over the latter as he moved the receiver to his ear.

"What is it?" He barked furiously, not realizing that only important people called on the secure line.

"Aleksei! It is President Ryan." The phone told him in greeting. "How are you today, my friend? May we talk?"

Iltchenko cursed the Americans for their lack of consideration and tendency to call at the most inconvenient times, but took a deep breath. "Of course, Mr. President. What is it you wish to talk about?" _As if I do not already know._

"President Iltchenko, we've been told some very frightening thing about an incident that occurred a couple of months ago, regarding some nuclear materials stolen from the site of the Chernobyl disaster." Ryan cleared his throat to break the ice. "We are aware that there may be a non-state entity in possession of a nuclear device. We need your confirmation, Aleksei."

_Yes, you were "told some very frightening things," indeed. By which, of course, you mean you were monitoring our press statements. _Iltchenko didn't say. "Unfortunately, Mr. President, you are correct. Two months ago some bandits broke into the exclusion zone and made off with a very small amount of some benign radioactive materials."

"Why ever didn't you tell us, Aleksei?"

"It is not a serious matter. We are in the process of tracking these men down." Iltchenko offered.

Ryan sighed. "Unfortunately, my friend, some people would disagree. I've gotten word that a NATO committee is meeting to discuss this turn of events. They don't like the fact that there are terrorists running around with the ingredients to make a nuke on hand."

Iltchenko froze and looked around the room. "What are you saying, Mr. President?"

"I'm saying that, as a friend, I would advise you to take some action while you still can."

* * *

Vladimir Platov sat there typing away on his keyboard. It was almost midnight, but the way things were looking he'd end up working another long night. Platov made a mental note to call his wife and tell her to put his dinner in the refrigerator, before opening up the files on the cryonics experiments. _Dr. _Vladimir Platov had worked at the government-owned facility for years, supervising the more "out there" experiments conducted by the Russian government. Nothing particularly secret or covert, unlike the work he'd done in the late eighties. Platov's own field of experience lied in nuclear fission, a highly popular—and controversial—topic of interest for nations during the Cold War.

Platov cringed. It was getting late, and his eyes were heavy with the pressure of sleep. His mind wanted to shut down; humans weren't supposed to be awake this long. He was currently pushing forty-eight hours without sleep. He was surprised laboratory heads were letting him work this long. It was not unlikely that the deprivation of sleep could have been affecting his ability to process complicated thought.

He stood after a moment and stretched as much as he could before walking out of his office and down the hall to the waiting vending machine. He would have preferred coffee, but the caffeine was beginning to make him jittery. Twenty seconds later he returned to his office with a small bag of potato chips. He couldn't go to sleep if the salt from the chips made him have to go to the bathroom. It was a ludicrous method of fighting the tire, but it seemed to work for some of his colleagues.

At the end of the corridor Platov noticed a figure standing erect, looking out the window and talking on a cell phone. This was odd, especially considering the figure's wearing of the facility's custodian uniform. The janitors should all have been sent home by this hour, he realized.

"Excuse me!" Platov called, already on his way into the office. The figure turned around and stared at him. The scientist couldn't see the man's eyes, the moonlight streaming in through the window rendered him an eerie cast-shadow against the light. Platov heard him whisper something inaudibly before saying something into the phone. "What are you doing here this late? Who are you?"

The figure's arm came up with a silenced pistol that was automatically trained on Platov, who responded by going wide-eyed and hastily trying to get inside his office before-

The custodian fired one round into Platov's leg from the end of the hallway, and the scientist cried out in pain as the bullet ripped into his kneecap. Seconds later Platov fell through the door into his office, dropping onto the ground and watching the opening in his leg spurt blood all over the pristine tiled floor. The next time Platov looked up, the man was standing over him, aiming his pistol at his head this time.

"Don't move!" The darkened silhouette warned, though Platov could make out the crevices in his face now. He wasn't Russian, but it was evident he'd gone through much to look like one. Platov could see the scars of minor plastic surgery that had altered his features to fit in with the rest of the facility's employees.

The custodian reached down and yanked Platov onto his feet by the collar of his lab coat, before throwing him towards his desk and pressing the barrel of the handgun, a Makarov PM service pistol, against the spot of flesh just behind Platov's left ear.

"Sit down, and stay quiet." He warned, prodding the back of his head again to tell him what would happen if he didn't.

Platov limped into his swivel chair and seethed in pain. The bullet had shattered his kneecap and left him bleeding profusely everywhere he went; there was a distinct trail of blood from where he'd lied in the doorway to his seated form in the chair. He glared at the intruder and wondered aloud: "Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?"

The custodian snorted and kept the gun leveled on his prisoner's head. "You'll find out soon enough."

As if on cue, Platov heard something from the floors below. A distinct sound that he'd heard only once before, long ago. The staccato chattering of automatic weapons fire, a Kalashnikov most likely. Following almost immediately after was an immensely loud _bang_ that almost shook the buildings foundation. The custodian went to the doorway and checked the hallway in both directions, careful to keep the Makarov steadily aimed at Platov.

_Just what the hell is going on? _Platov had to ask himself, and found himself frightened when he didn't know the answer. The blood loss was starting to zap him of his energy, and the scientist began to drift off in the chair as the custodian waited patiently for whatever was supposed to happen.

* * *

Al-Jaali waited with his cell phone for the appropriate codeword. There were two men inside the facility disguised as custodians. Both were instructed to inform Al-Jaali when the time was right. The Blackwater Worldwide guards recently hired to keep watch over the Brezhnev Laboratory of Critical Sciences had proven to be at their weakest during the daily shift change, which occurred at a time unknown to Hosaam Al-Jaali. His plants inside the facility would witness it, and inform him when it was underway.

There were seven of them, including the two allies posing as custodians. Four were low-budget Syrian mercenaries with a vicious grudge against Russians. Al-Jaali was the last, and it was his responsibility to lead them. After all, their attack would never be successful if they didn't have a competent leader. So he would, much to his chagrin, have to remain behind to assume the "command" role

The cell phone rang a few moments later. Al-Jaali answered it almost as soon as it had begun its vibration in his hand, and put it to his ear. "Yes? Very good. We shall see you soon. _Allahu akbar_."

Al-Jaali craned his neck and nodded to the four Syrians in the back of their van. All of them got out with their rifles, one carrying the small case with him. The group them walked slowly across the underground parking garage to the predetermined point in the northeast wall. Al-Jaali's friend, who had some architectural experience, had identifying the point as the place where the wall's structural integrity was at its lowest. The mercenary with the case opened it up and removed a medium-sized explosive charge from inside. It was set with its adhesive over the weak point.

The four Syrians could communicate with Al-Jaali via the small portable radios each of them carried. Using a clandestine frequency which the Russians rarely monitored, their brief exchanges would be heard by no one besides them. Al-Jaali heard the radio click and put it closer to his ear.

"Charge is set. We'll detonate it on your word." Said one of the Syrians.

The leader of the group smiled to himself and thumbed the button on the side. "Set it off."

There was silence for a few brief seconds, like the delicate calm before a raging storm. Then he felt it. The sound of the detonation paled in comparison to the shock wave that coursed through the parking garage. The white van he sat in shook slightly before settling again. Following it immediately after came the staccato chatter of automatic weapons, coupled with the screams of the frightened and dying. Already scientists began dropping left and right within the facility.

Some of the Syrians were screaming, mostly warnings or curses. There were no nice words to be said at that moment in time. Those who didn't listen to their demands of obedience and cooperation were rewarded with bullets from the rifles of the Syrians. It took a full thirty seconds before the Blackwater personnel started to fight back, returning fire with their German-made submachine guns. It was a losing battle. The Syrians had begun to make hostages of the scientists inside, and the Blackwater mercenaries were left with no other choice than to lay down their weapons in submission. They were promptly executed as soon as they did so.

Ten minutes later, the entire laboratory was under control. Al-Jaali climbed out of the van's passenger's seat and went around to the back, removing two stainless steel briefcases and strolling into the facility through the gaping hole in the wall.

His siege had been a success.

* * *

Mokashev closed up the attaché case on his lap and shook hands with his boss at FSB before leaving the man's office and making his way down to his personal car outside. As many had noted following the end of the Cold War, capitalism allowed for much more recreational freedom. The fact that everyone could freely own an automobile meant the small, clogged streets that were once reserved for the high and mighty of Russia were now open to all. This increase in drivers had resulted in horrid traffic problems in Moscow and abroad, but Mokashev paid it no mind. He had bigger problems to worry about.

As he wiggled into the comfort of his sedan's driver's seat, Mokashev felt his cell phone vibrate in the breast pocket of his suit jacket and sighed. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other working to fish the device out of its pocket, the FSB executive slowly pulled his black nondescript car out of its parking spot at Lubyanka Square. He thumbed the "talk" button a few seconds later.

"Lyov." He answered. "What? You must be kidding me!"

The caller began to explain what he'd heard over the course of the past ten minutes.

Mokashev motored down the nearest street only to find himself in bumper-to-bumper traffic after a minute. He listened quietly at the person on the other end of the line slowly and calmly explained the most recent course of events that had cast a new light on some of the paperwork that had been coming through his office.

"Okay, yes. I'll tell the rest of them immediately. Thank you." Mokashev ended the call and immediately went into this contacts list and selected the right one after a moment. The other FSB executives would have to wait; he had another friend waiting for this kind of information. He didn't even have to wait past the first ring.

* * *

Bill Tawney finished his usual breakfast scone at five minutes past six in the morning and did away with the trash before booting up his computer and waiting patiently for it to arrive at the user menu. Before he could type in his password, however, the cell phone on his desk rang, demanding his immediate attention. He answered before it got to the first ring.

"Tawney." He greeted the silence.

"William! It's Lyov." Mokashev responded from his car in Moscow. "I have just learned something from one of my analysts that I believe warrants your interest."

The head of intelligence at RAINBOW cocked an eyebrow at the statement and took the bait. "What might that be?"

Mokashev went on immediately. "Apparently, around two hours ago, a group of assailants broke into one of the government's old Cold War era laboratories. The politburo used to use it as a site for pioneering nuclear technologies, but after capitalism took over they sold it to some bio-engineering firm with sister accounts in physics. The PMC that was guarding it tapped into the real-time CCTV feeds, and one of the bad guys—their leader, we think—matches the descriptions given by the gentlemen who had the encounter with the Chernobyl bandits."

"Slow down, mate." Tawney interrupted. "You're saying the same people who broke into the exclusion zone two months ago stormed a government laboratory?"

"That's what it looks like, yes."

Tawney leaned back in his chair and shook his head in disbelief. "You said there are physicists there? At the lab?"

"That is correct."

"My God."

A/N: Maybe this is becoming much too obvious in the plot, but what do you get when you add a defunct SADM with a treasure trove of nuclear materials and a Russian physicist? Well, I'll let you, the reader, figure that out. (Because I'm such a mysterious bastard.) I hoped you liked this, and understand why I cut off the chapter at this particular point. Other than that, I don't have much to say in closing. Blah, blah, blah, review this. Yada, yada, yada, feedback that. You know the drill guys. Later!


	6. Anonymity

A/N: Another chapter up today. Man, I never realized how much I hate Cessna planes. They're bumpy, small, and a LOT of fun to fly in! Anyway, well I've had this one for a while, and just finished it a couple minutes ago. I hope everyone likes it, as I'll be introducing another familiar character to Clancy readers. Well, a couple I suppose. Only two really. Regardless, this picks up right where the last leaves off. Enjoy.

-Chapter Five-

Anonymity

RAINBOW FIVE pushed his thumb down on the toggle, watching the water pour out of the cooler into his Styrofoam cup for several seconds. Tawney came out of the elevator moments after its resonating _ding_ and was making a beeline for him already, determination in his eyes. Or was that fear? Something urgent was happening, that much was certain.

"Eddie?" The intelligence chief called from the end of the third floor bullpen. Moving around the cubicles of various executive personnel, Tawney was before Price in seconds. "Something big is happening. I just a call from my pal in the FSB. Says a government laboratory just got raided, possibly by the same people who stole the nuclear materials from Chernobyl a couple months ago."

"What?" The deputy director was in shock.

Tawney nodded his head. "He doesn't know if it's a hostage situation yet, but I think we need to find out. If this _is_ the same guys, then you and me both know how dangerous this can get. All they need to do is have one nuclear physicist write down some notes and they can build themselves a nice little suitcase bomb."

* * *

Iltchenko assembled his highest executives within minutes, summoning them to the conference table in his Kremlin office and sitting hands-folded at the head. The word had just come in from FSB about the incident at the laboratory. The Brezhnev facility was just south of Moscow, which meant word had traveled fast through the city.

"What the hell are we going to do about this?" The President of the Russian Federation asked his comrades. Nobody had an immediate answer. "Well? You all volleyed so passionately to send the Spetsnaz into Chernobyl! This is just a 'couple of criminals with assault rifles,' isn't it? 'No big deal' huh?"

It was obvious that Iltchenko wasn't happy.

The head of the FSB cleared his throat and felt the daggers from Iltchenko's deep brown eyes boring holes in the side of his head. "Aleksei, if I may, one of my men suggested we… call RAINBOW again."

"Yes, that worked very well the last time." Iltchenko spat.

"Lyov believes they will respond this time. He says that Palmer cannot deny our request with the solid evidence we have on the incident." The head of the FSB was a very level-headed man, and as such wasn't confident that Iltchenko would agree. Their president was very angry, most likely still feeling the sting of the organization's refusal of assistance two months ago.

A quick look around the table told Aleksei Gennady Iltchenko that there weren't going to be any better suggestions. Bitterness in his movements, the President got up, walked over to his desk, and carried the secure red telephone back to the conference table. He hit the "speaker" button before dialing the number.

* * *

Eddie Price knocked twice on the door to RAINBOW SIX's office before walking in. He found Vincent Palmer reading over reports from Washington while technical expert Timothy Noonan worked on the busted hard drive from his computer. FIVE cleared his throat and held up a manila folder.

"Beg your pardon, sir. Do you mind if we have a word?" Price asked politely. He didn't feel like being polite, not after the Chernobyl incident. And that had been two months prior.

Palmer set the report on the desk and waved Noonan out of the room. The former FBI consultant nodded in passing as he brushed past Price on his way out of the room. As soon as the door shut, FIVE stepped forward and dropped the folder on the desk. "I think you need to see this, sir."

"What is it?" Palmer asked, reaching across the desk and picking up the folder that was labeled, "DIRECTOR/DEPUTY'S EYES ONLY -- MOSCOW 19112."

Price crossed his arms and took a step back. "We've heard from a reliable source within FSB that a laboratory owned by the Russian government was broken into by an unknown number of hostiles armed with high caliber automatic weapons."

"I see." SIX muttered, leafing through the contents of the folder, all of which happened to be transcripts of a distress call from the Blackwater force tasked with defending the facility. None of them carried any good news. By the looks of things, Palmer noted, the PMC had been overrun by a small unit of armed assailants. "This is pretty grim."

"That's not even the half of it, sir." Price explained, gesturing towards the next page in the folder.

Palmer lifted up the sheet and read the contents quietly to himself. "So? All I see is an unfounded report that these are the same characters who broke into Chernobyl, backed up only by the questionable testimony of a mercenary who happened to be under tremendous duress during that theft."

FIVE's face lost all emotion, going blank while his mind crashed like an overpowered computer. Unable to process what he'd just heard, the deputy director of RAINBOW did a double-take and cleared his throat. "What?"

"Mr. Price, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but this is _hardly _actionable evidence. I can't authorize an operation with these reports." Palmer explained it quietly and slowly, like a police captain visiting a young wife to inform her that her husband wouldn't be coming home for dinner that night. Or ever again. RAINBOW SIX shot down Price's motion before it had even been seriously brought to light. "This isn't anything we can move on. I mean, for all we know, this might just be some Russian consumers unhappy with their heart medication. There's nothing in this report that directly links to terrorism at all. Besides, the Russian government is entirely capable of defending themselves from this kind of minor disturbance."

Eddie Price pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, a gesture reserved only for the most contemptuous circumstances. "Palmer, that's an arsehole response and you bloody know it! I've been with RAINBOW for a good few years, and I think I'm quite aware of what our role is and how far our jurisdiction reaches."

Simulated Lieutenant General Vincent Palmer cast a wary glare Price's way and replied as calmly as readily possible. "Regardless, _Mr. Price_, I too have familiarized myself with RAINBOW's role, and I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that this is _not _something we need to get ourselves into."

SIX closed the manila folder and dropped it onto the desk unceremoniously, gesturing for Price to take the wretched thing out of his sight. The Deputy Director scowled as silently and discreetly as possible before snatching the file off Palmer's desk and turning to leave the office.

* * *

Tawney looked up when he heard the door to Price's office swing open, and stood from the small chair to follow his boss down the hall and towards the elevator. "Well, what did he say?"

"Palmer's off his bloody rocker." FIVE spat, the words obviously having been held in long enough. "This is the _second _major incident he's kept us out of, and I'm not going to stand by while he puts our organization in shambles."

"So what are we supposed to do?" The head of RAINBOW's intelligence department inquired quizzically as Price smacked the button for the elevator.

Price waited until the stainless steel doors parted and allowed them into the car, walking in and hitting the button for the intelligence floor not a moment later. "I'm going to need you to look up a number for me. You might know the chap, name's Jack Ryan."

* * *

Sergey Nikolay'ch Golovko put down the phone after his length conversation with the prying reporters on the other end. Free media in Russia was a beautiful thing, he realized, but it was a political tool even more so. What he'd learned during Iltchenko's conference was certainly the kind of juicy news journalists lived for, and willingly distributing the confidential information to the press had its benefits for the head of the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation (Russian, _Federal'naya sluzhba bezopasnosti Rossiyskoy Federatsii_), who'd had aspirations of rising to greater power within the government of his motherland. In order for this to happen, however, a rather incompetent obstacle had to be removed from his path.

Golovko was something of a man of the times. He missed the days of the good old USSR, but more so for the cold efficiency of the KGB when compared to its spiritual successor. The loss of a harsh communist regime under the old men of the politburo was no great one for Golovko himself, and capitalism had been just as profitable professionally. (Barring the extreme circumstance when he'd narrowly avoided the determined assassination attempt near Dzerzhinskiy Square.) He often wondered if assuming the office of President of the Russian Federation would allow him to change things, perhaps for the better. More often he wondered if doing so was even possible. Golovko was not a young man by any definition of the word, and his chances of taking such a position were getting worse and worse which each passing year. If he was to pursue this goal, he would have to be seeing real results within months. Which is exactly what he planned to do.

Iltchenko trusted him. So did the Russian parliament. There would be a bloodless coup to occur right under the nose of Russia's most senior political chiefs, and no one would even know. Golovko felt a twinge of pride as he lifted the corner of his mouth in a slick smile. Perhaps power had corrupted him, but he knew that Russia needed to experience a change. Potentially dangerous terrorists were at large with nuclear materials, and the reason for this could be traced to Iltchenko's inability to act properly as a political leader. Change was a necessity; there were no other solutions.

The chief official of the FSB lifted the phone again and went through the process to connecting himself to one of the most secure lines in the world. He waited out the inevitable ringer, which took a remarkably short amount of time before someone answered.

"Ryan here."

* * *

"I don't know if the information will be of any value for you." Golovko confessed after their conversation had neared its end. "But it is something of which I believed needed to be brought out in the open. I don't trust Iltchenko, if for no other reason than that he seems unable to hold his office."

It was the truth, Ryan knew. There were few in the world anymore who truly believed that Aleksei Iltchenko was stable enough to serve as Russia's president. But if Ryan's years in the CIA and—even more aptly so—his years of being mentored by the noble Admiral James Greer had taught him anything, it had that he was a natural judge of character. From the moment they'd "met" at Sheremetyevo Airport with the KGB officer pointing an (unloaded) gun at Ryan's head, he'd never _really_ distrusted Golovko. Until now.

"I see." The President of the United States said. "Well I'm going to make sure we look into this turn of events. Thank you for the tip, Sergey."

They ended the call as cordially as possible, and no more than a few mere seconds later, the phone on the desk rang again. Ryan, having just began the motions of rising from his chair, eased begrudgingly back into his seat and lifted the phone off the hook. There was the usually stutter of electronics doing their business, and Ryan heard a voice.

"President Ryan?" It asked, through the gruff accent of a seasoned British war vet. "This is Eddie Price at RAINBOW, I'm calling in regards to an incident unfolding in Russia, sir."

Ryan drew back and glanced around the room. "What did you say?"

There was silence for a moment. "So you've heard, sir."

* * *

Palmer hung up the phone and stood from his seat. It was about time for a lunch break, he reckoned. The café near the garrison was close enough, and he could rush back at a moment's notice. Sliding the coat off his high-backed chair, Palmer shrugged into it and started fumbling for his sunglasses. It was unusually bright out, he realized.

Then the door swung open, and in marched RAINBOW FIVE, entering without the common courtesy to knock. SIX had been about to object when the deputy director opened his mouth.

"Sir, I just got off the phone with the President of the United States. I told him about the situation in Russia, and he seems to agree with me." Price set, just to level the playing field. "In an hour he'll have the UN committee together, and if that happens then we will be able to overrule you. I'm asking you once more before it gets to that: allow us to send a team to the laboratory. Otherwise-"

"Okay." Palmer conceded at last. "That's fine, Mr. Price. If you want so badly to send our troops to Russia, then I suppose you do so with good reason."

RAINBOW SIX brushed past his deputy director and out the door that lead to the neighboring corridor. Price wasn't about to let the matter drop so easily. He followed the commander out the door and stepped into his path, blocking the route to the floor elevator.

"Is this a joke?" He questioned. "You've kept us out of two incidents, and now you're so willing to send a team out? What gives, sir?"

The former lieutenant general of USSOCOM simply eyed Price once and said clearly: "Mr. Price, I'm agreeing with you. Enjoy it while it lasts."

* * *

Simulated Captain Louis Loiselle lead his men into the back of the Lockheed MC-130 waiting at the airstrip. Dangling at his side from the tight nylon strap was the standard-issue MP5/10 submachine gun. It had been an entirely new experience, taking command of Team Two when Chavez and Price had both ascended to desk-duty. He was now the team leader, and as such it was his responsibility to make sure Team Two completed its missions under his command. It was a task he'd yet to fail.

"Let's go!" The ex-GIGN operative boomed, directing the other eleven members of the team into the back of the plane. He wasn't entirely sure where they were going, or what they were doing. But he had a theory. The incident outside Moscow had made its way onto the ever-circulating media by then. His theory was that it had something to do with the Chernobyl theft, and that RAINBOW was making up for their absence. There was no way he could have known what he was getting himself into.

A/N: I smell a subplot! Anyone who's read Jack Ryan books knows that Golovko is pretty much Ryan's arch nemesis and polar opposite. Kind of his equivalent in the Russian intelligence industry. I hope the flow stayed consistent, and didn't falter _too _much over the course of the chapter. The next one will be up soon enough, so just try to stay patient. And review! (Almost forgot.)


	7. Ground Zero

A/N: Phew, well this is it. If there's maybe two parts in this story that are considering the big "holy crap" moments, then this chapter is one of them. You're about to read something I _hope _isn't all that predictable, and something that should come as a reasonable surprise. I didn't actually spend much time on this chapter really, it was just one of those deals where you just start writing and the words come out. I wish it was always that easy, but writing fiction is a bitch of a process. Anyway, I hope you all like it and keep reading.

-Chapter Six-

Ground Zero

Al-Jaali stood, arms crossed, looking over his prisoner with significant contempt for the atrocities committed by the man's countrymen. Platov was staggering in place, still woozy from the blood lost as a result of the gunshot to his knee, though the facility's captive medical personnel had been able to stabilize the wound. Platov would survive, they assured Al-Jaali.

The aftermath of their raid was rather uneventful. The formerly pristine interior of the Brezhnev Laboratory of Critical Sciences now bore similarities to a ravaged battleground. Where there were not overturned desks and papers strewn about, there were bodies. Where bullets had not pierced the tiles of wall or ceiling, there was blood. Of the twenty scientists who'd been working late that night, six were still alive. All of the Blackwater guards had been eliminated during the siege. Anybody who was still breathing was kept as a hostage. Al-Jaali assured his comrades they'd need some leverage during the negotiations that the Russians were sure to proceed with soon. After all, FSB had already set up a loose perimeter around the facility.

But that was a problem for the others, Al-Jaali realized. His departure was immanent, and they knew that. In his stead he would leave one of the two men disguised as custodians to lead the group. With him, Al-Jaali would be taking Platov, bound and gagged, and together they would make their way to a nearby airstrip. There they'd board a plane and return to meet with Al-Jaali's superior, who would be quite happy to finally meet Platov.

"Hosaam?" The custodian who'd shot Platov began uneasily. "Are you sure this is the right way to go about this? I mean, the Russians won't let us just get away will killing their people."

"Won't let _us _get away? Amin, have you forgotten? The children who died at the camps, and the women they raped?" Al-Jaali snarled. "This kind of action has been long overdue, my friend. Your sacrifices will not be forgotten."

The custodian, Amin, nodded awkwardly. "I understand."

"_Allahu akbar._" Al-Jaali promised, and then took a groggy Platov by the upper arm and jerked him in the direction of the corridor that lead to the discreet maintenance door. The back of the facility opened up into a largely wooded area, which happened to be much too thick to set up a decent perimeter in. Al-Jaali would escape through the trees and find the jeep that had been planted a week before for their escape.

* * *

Price was a patient man, Timothy Noonan knew. It was one of the reasons he liked the man so much; he knew there was no point in rushing a process that needed to be as precise as it was lengthy. They were sitting in the basement of the garrison, in what was RAINBOW's mission command center. From this room, they could monitor Team Two throughout the duration of their mission in Russia. By now, of course, they were familiar with it. The command center had been operational for a year and a half, and utilized technologies far too complicated for Price or any of the administrative staff to understand. Noonan, on the other hand, happened to be an electronics wizard who tinkered with such devices to pass the time.

Following the success of Operation: MYSTIC TIGER in 1998, RAINBOW had been granted its own surveillance satellite by NORAD. The bird had been properly replaced and modified over the years, now able to be over any given point on earth within fifteen minutes. This asset had been assigned the codename HAWK, and was currently en route to a fixed position over the Brezhnev Laboratory of Critical Sciences. Noonan checked and double-checked the coordinates he'd given it, just to make sure there would be no mistakes; HAWK was a lot harder to reposition than people liked to believe.

"How much longer, Tim?" FIVE asked politely. His dwindling patience was evident with every tap his foot made on the cold concrete floor. The command center slightly resembled a bunker in its architecture.

Noonan shook his head. "A couple minutes, tops. I'm calibrating the frequencies as we speak, we should be able to talk to Loiselle any second now."

Price nodded approvingly. "Good."

Three and a half minutes later the two men had a live audio feed with the traveling MC-130, aboard which Louis Loiselle stood in the communications booth near the front of plane. Their conversation would be brief and to-the-point.

"Are you going to give us a briefing?" Loiselle asked begrudgingly. "Or are we just going to be running in, guns blazing?"

FIVE stepped forward and leaned into the console which held the microphone he'd be speaking into. "You know where you're going, Louie. The lab in Russia has been under surveillance since an hour ago. No one's gone in or out since then. FSB reports a likely hostage situation, which we'll confirm once our bird can get a good scan of the building."

"Do we know who the bad guys are?" Loiselle asked next, seeking as much information on their enemies as possible. You never knew what bits of intelligence could prove to be useful in the field.

Price shook his head in the command center. "No positive identification, but Tawney seems to think it's the same guys who robbed Chernobyl a couple months ago and shot the mercenary."

"I see."

* * *

The MC-130 landed flawlessly, taxiing its way down the designated runway of Moscow's primary international airport before being met on the tarmac by a nondescript van that would take them to the laboratory where FSB was currently amassing. By then, HAWK would have a real-time visual feed which would be forwarded to the command center in Hereford. They'd put together what intelligence they had before making their move, which would have to be perfectly executed, Loiselle realized. If these really were the people who stole the materials from the Chernobyl exclusion zone, then there was only one reason they'd be taking physicists hostage. This was no two-bit bank robbery like in Bern.

The ride out of Moscow was mostly quiet, not unlike the flight over. The shooters of Team Two, who'd already gotten all the sleep they could on the plane, mostly sat in silent anticipation. Their MP5/10 submachine guns clung to their chests in their slings, all of them set to "safe." This with the exception of Dieter Weber, Julio Vega, and Homer Johnston, who served different roles on the team and required different weapons. Weber and Johnston, Team Two's designated snipers, used specialized modern variants of the WA2000. Vega toted a massive M60 light machine gun.

It was another hour before they left Moscow's city limits, and another twenty minutes before they reached the laboratory. Once there, the van was parked out of sight of the buildings, and the team clambered out the back. Another van, which had been trailing them since their departure from the airport, pulled up behind them while its own occupants went to work. That second van held the other equipment needed to make the mission a success. A "supersized" version of RAINBOW's portable heartbeat sensors was operated from the back of the second van. It worked similarly to a radar, but while a radar detected electromagnetic waves the sensors in the van were designed to pick out the high-frequency signatures given off by the beat of a human heart.

These sensors were calibrated to a wireless network that was synchronized with the command center at Hereford. All this put together allowed for RAINBOW FIVE and anyone else at the unit's headquarters to monitor the progress and movement of both Team Two members and unidentified subjects.

* * *

Price watched the screen with solid interest. The thermal scans from HAWK's feed were coming in, and were translated into something remotely useful. The two-floor building that made up the Brezhnev Laboratory of Critical Sciences was showing twelve man-sized heat signatures. Six of them were stationary, in the corner of one of the testing facilities on the upper floor, just east of the lobby. With these six were two more, one of which seemed to be pacing back and forth; the other was up against the far wall. The remaining four were patrolling in various positions around the facility. Two on the first floor, two on the lower.

It amazed RAINBOW FIVE how much information could be gathered from a live feed of moving red-yellow blobs. While thermal signatures themselves were rarely distinguishable in their visual appearance, behavior said much. Hostages in such situations were commonly herded in small areas like corners, not unlike cattle. Two to three "tangos" usually kept watch over these hostages, while others were told by their leaders—usually one of those watching the captives, since terrorist leaders were often paranoid and distrusting—to patrol around the area. It was all textbook information, a defensive setup like this was hardly rare.

"Tim, forward this to the Team Two's intel van." Price demanded, and Noonan obliged. Seconds later the live feed from HAWK was playing on TV screens inside the van, for Loiselle himself to look over.

"What the hell?" Noonan mused out loud, but it was enough to draw the attention of the Deputy Director. Price was looking over his shoulder in a moment.

"What is it?"

Noonan took a breath, and shook his head in annoyance. "Not sure. I'm seeing two small signatures in the building. There's one on each floor. See?" The former FBI tech consultant pointed out both of them. Each signature was small and square, and definitely too distinct to be that of a human being. Not to mention the heat being given off was just a tad too low.

Price nodded. "Yeah, I see them. Have any clue what they might be?"

Noonan shook his head. "Not one. But this _is _a scientific facility. The docs there probably work on all kinds of stuff. It's probably nothing."

* * *

Loiselle looked over the scans from HAWK for several minutes, marking off hostiles' positions on his copy of the lab's blueprints. One by one he identified what he believed to be all the tangos and their hostages. The numbers were identical: six hostages and six bad guys. Was that a coincidence? Loiselle didn't bother pondering it further. That was for the analysts to look over after all the shooting had been done. Now it was time for action.

Weber and Johnston were both sent to hills overlooking the Brezhnev facility, across the road that the vans were parked alongside. Each of the marksmen could see into the large windows through their lenses of their telescopic sights. Weber could solidly identify two men with pistols standing a stone's throw away from the hostages. Both were dressed in drab blue jumpsuits that bore the look of a lowly janitor. Johnston had his crosshairs over one man patrolling down a hallway adjacent to the parking garage. In the span of three seconds, Loiselle could give the word and two snipers would open fire, killing three hostage takers.

The rest of the team was split into two elements. Loiselle himself would take one and head as discreetly as possible to the maintenance door on the opposite side of the facility. They'd approach it through the wooded area behind the building. The second element, lead by heavy weapons specialist Julio Vega, would head onto the lower floor through the open parking garage. The firepower of Vega's M60 would provide them enough cover to get safely through the open space.

"Team Two, this is RAINBOW FIVE." Price's voice chimed over their headsets. "I understand Louie has put together a plan. We'll be monitoring you from headquarters throughout the execution of your mission. We want to wish you all good luck. Out."

Loiselle nodded and gestured for the team to break up into its two elements. Six minutes later, everyone was in place. The former GIGN operative called for a last-minute check over their comms. Weber and Johnston radioed in their status, both stating that they were on-point. Vega had escorted his element through the parking garage and was waiting on Loiselle's word.

"_D'accord_. Team Two, prepare to execute in one minute."

* * *

Amin was sweating. His moistened hands were loosing their grip on the small Makarov PM service weapon. He knew the Russians would make their move any minute now, and in all actuality, he didn't want to die. But it wasn't his decision, was it? They weren't acting by their own will, were they? No, their actions that day had been for the glory of Allah, and it was His desire that they protect the escape of their leader. To do that, he knew, they needed to remain at the facility.

_Allahu akbar_. He told himself, the words repeating in his mind. "God is greatest," they meant, and that was incentive enough for him to do what had to be done.

* * *

"Go!" Loiselle snapped, while keeping his voice low enough as though not to attract attention to anyone inside who might be nearby. The four men who'd been with him filtered quickly into the lobby of the laboratory, proceeding in a disciplined leap-fog fashion through the top floor. At the same time, several feet below, Vega's element did the same. The sound suppressors on their MP5/10s made sure no there was no audible sign of their intrusion.

A minute later, Loiselle's element had cleared the top floor, with the exception of the room the hostages were crowded in. This was a small locker room, no doubt for scientists to change into protective hazmat suits for handling radioactive materials. Two hostiles had been eliminated; both appeared to be Arabic hired thugs. Syrian, maybe? Loiselle wasn't sure.

"Connolly, put a charge on the door. Now!" Loiselle barked. Paddy Connolly, who remained Team Two's demolitions specialist over the years, went to work rigging the large metal door leading into the locker room with Primacord. Thirty seconds later, Connolly gave a thumbs-up and gestured for all of them to get back. "Go!"

The charge was detonated before Loiselle had even finished demanding it, blowing in the large metal door and collapsing its frame like a house of cards. Loiselle moved in, seeing one man who'd raised his Makarov in defiance. The team leader shot him once in the chest with a well-placed burst. Seconds later the entire element had poured into the room, and all had their MP5/10 submachine guns trained on the Amin's head.

"Put the gun down!" Loiselle barked, but the Frenchman felt it was a useless gesture. This vaguely Russian looking man, who's face bore eerily surgical scars, seemed rather disinterested in using the pistol dangling in his right hand. Instead, Amin stared at Loiselle in a frightening way. Despite this, it was not death that Louis Loiselle saw in his enemy's eyes, it was fear. As though the man was begging him for another way out. "Put it down!" He tried again.

Instead, Amin's hand moved slowly into a pocket on his jumpsuit, and came out a second later. What he held looked vaguely like a cell phone, Loiselle realized. But why-

"Shit! Everybody out!" Loiselle saw the immediate danger and turned to exit the room. But it was too late. Amin's thumb depressed on a speed-dial button that sent a radio message out to two devices planted in key points inside the facility. Inside two stainless steel suitcases, the trigger mechanisms on highly volatile explosives did their jobs. A chemical catalyst then ignited the bombs, both of which were planted next to pipelines that held pure oxygen necessary for the sterile environments of the testing rooms. In a matter of seconds the entirety of the Brezhnev Laboratory of Critical Sciences was destroyed in a massive fireball that towered high over the neighboring trees.

* * *

Price watched on in horror. The image of the facility on HAWK's thermal feed was suddenly transformed into a massive blur of blood red on the screen, which then diminished seconds later. He took a step back while Noonan spurt out a string of murmured curses that Price didn't hear. The Deputy Director simply stared, wide-eyed, at the screen. He didn't need to be told what a bloom of heat like that meant; it was an explosion. As soon as the massive surge of red-yellow was gone, all Price could see was a few sporadic flickers that signified remaining fires.

What he saw on the screen struck him as something… not real. He couldn't translate the sight into something relatable. His mind was devoid of thought, the only vaguely human thing remaining being a manifestation of pure shock. Then, slowly, it returned. He'd just watched the laboratory being incinerated by what could only be bombs that had been planted prior to their arrival.

"Eddie!" Noonan shouted FIVE's name as loud as he dared, trying desperately to bring the Deputy Director out of his unresponsive state. But it was no use. Price backed himself into a wall, refusing to believe what he'd just seen was real. He'd just watched—God, how many men was it? His mind would not even process the numbers. He felt like the terrors of the world were surrounding him. He was sweating profusely. His heart rate was making incredibly jumps.

Noonan caught his boss as he fell to the ground, easing him into a slumped state. The technical head took a quick glance back at the flickering screen. What in God's name had gone wrong?

* * *

Weber brought his eyes off the scope and stared on in disbelief at what he'd just seen. In a moment he was racing down the hill towards the ruins that had been the Brezhnev Laboratory only ten seconds before. His rifle held at a ready low, Weber was stopped as he neared the rubble by Johnston, who held him back from rushing in.

"They're gone, Dieter!" Johnston screamed, not willing to let his only living comrade rush into the blazing wreckage of the facility. Not willing to let him, too, die. "Stop! Just stop!"

"No!" The German marksman boomed, doing his best to push past the grasp of his friend. But he knew it was too late. He'd just watched his entire team being incinerated, and no amount of bravery would change that. It wasn't until two minutes later that the weight of this loss reached both men, and as any man would, both Weber and Johnston mentally punished themselves for being the only ones alive.

* * *

Al-Jaali pushed Platov into the back of the Cessna 172, dropping his rifle in the seat beside him and donning the headphones on the dash. Moments later he closed the door and coordinated their takeoff with the men controlling traffic at the tiny, secluded airstrip. They were several miles from the laboratory, but as they rose slowly into the sky, even they could see the burning remains of the building. From his seat piloting the plane, Al-Jaali smirked deviously at the success of his operation. With Vladimir Platov in hand, they now had everything they'd need.

"_Allahu akbar_." Al-Jaali said in prayer, wishing his friends an eternity in happiness, and wishing mercy on the foolish Syrians who'd refused to submit to the will of Allah. Perhaps they'd realized their mistakes at the last-minute, but that was unlikely. Too bad, he pondered. But their loss was acceptable.

A/N: You know, I _do _like Loiselle, I just don't think he's that major of a character. So it's not _too _big a loss when he dies. But then you realize that almost the entire team is dead, and that the emotional impact on Price is staggering. Anyway, you hate Al-Jaali yet? I hope so, since I'm trying to make him out to be that "son of a bitch" antagonist that everybody wants dead. Like Cutter from Clear and Present Danger, or Sean Miller from Patriot Games. So, please review. Later!


	8. Rattling Bushes

A/N: Meh, I'm half and half on this chapter. It talks a little bit in the beginning about how Price copes with the weight of the loss in the previous chapter, but I never really go _too _in depth with it. Then again, I don't think it's a topic that requires an overly large amount of description. You can see his current emotional state and realize the personal hell he's put himself in; I wouldn't need to explain it to you. (Some would argue that it's better that I not, since it leaves the magnitude of his mental anguish to the imagination. I'm wary of agreeing with that.) Anyway, you'll also see the aftermath of the incident, and the first part of the retaliatory operation against the bastards responsible. (I even start to go into detail describing the group Al-Jaali runs with. Goodie.) Well, I'm talking to much. Please enjoy this chapter.

-Chapter Seven-

Rattling Bushes

Lyov Mokashev stood in what remained of the Brezhnev building and found himself unable to stay upright for very long. Watching the authorities search the wreckage in a curt and unceremonious process was too much a burden for him to bear, and only a minute later he found himself sitting on a boulder outside what had been the front entrance a day ago.

He saw the recover teams sifting through rubble and debris, dragging out charred remains that looked vaguely human. Some were dropped straight onto stretchers that were promptly zipped up and whisked off to a morgue or some other depressing place. Others were grouped together to later be studied like some kind of disgusting jigsaw puzzle. Mokashev found it disturbing to watch. These deceased were tossed around, given not so much as a fleeting glance of respect or consideration. Like poker chips, or some other insignificant trinket.

"Sir?" Somebody said, and Mokashev looked up.

"Yes?"

"I just spoke to some of the medical professionals. They say all the bodies have suffered extensive burns, but there are a few that may be able to be identified." The junior agent from FSB announced hopefully. Mokashev merely nodded and stared at the ground.

That was information to be passed on to Tawney, he decided. But not now. Now was a time for taking a look at himself, and examining the depth of his own humanity. Would that be him some day, he asked the ground. Would he be a victim some day, he asked the sky. Lyov Mokashev stood and tried not to focus on the morbid nature of the scene. He was an intelligence professional, and he had a job to do.

* * *

It was dark outside, not unlike the innermost sanctum of Price's very soul. Everyone had gone home by then; Palmer had left early for some reason or other. It seemed that RAINBOW FIVE was the only living being in their shell of a building, and even he felt dead. The whiskey his cousin had brought him from Ireland, that he kept in that bottom drawer in his desk, was now gone. Emptied in a series of shots that numbed emotions too strong and overpowering to deal with otherwise.

He sat in his office, alone. The secretaries had left for the night, many of the field operatives were resting with their families, leaving only the few most diligent of the intelligence personnel to stay behind. It was going to be a long night for Simulated Colonel Edward Price, one spent fighting off demons that were due to resurface. This wasn't the first time he'd lost men to the horror of combat, but it was the first time it had happened under his command. He had yet to call his wife and inform her of his plans to isolate himself in the confines of his office for the night, and had no plans to. This was a grievance that she could not comfort.

The door opened slowly, opening a breach in his prison that granted entry for the one man who had any hopes of helping him through this. Domingo Chavez filed in, abandoning the cane his doctors forced him to use by the door and taking a seat before the desk of his friend and comrade. He'd heard the news a day ago.

"Five seconds." Price muttered. The first words he'd spoken in hours of personal exile. "One moment I was watching them, on the screen. Five seconds later… they were all gone."

Chavez shook his head. "It wasn't your fault."

"But it was!" Was the sluggish retort. It was nothing if not a normal emotion; any man who _didn't _blame himself at first was not a man. "It was my fault, Ding!"

The former director of the organization shook his head, this time with more authority. "You're wasted."

Price ignored the statement. "They trusted me. To get them the best intel, to offer them the best commander that I could give them. And I failed them. Because I screwed up, ten of our people are dead."

The man who was once RAINBOW SIX stood up and leaned across the desk, grasping his friend by the shoulders and demanding eye contact. "Look at me." He said, and when Price's empty gaze met his: "It was _not _your fault."

Never one to knock the method of "tough love," even Domingo Chavez knew when he had reached the limit. Eddie Price was a broken man, and broken men took a long time to put back together. Less for those who dealt in death, since they knew the consequences of war. But this was not war, was it? Price was a fighter, and he would pick himself back up. Eventually. Chavez could only hope that it would be sooner, rather than later. RAINBOW needed a competent leader, and Price's descriptions of Vincent Palmer didn't fit the bill.

* * *

It was not until a week later that any action was taken. Say what one will about time being a precious and dwindling resource, there were none who could have hastened the healing process of Eddie Price. But when RAINBOW FIVE had finally recovered his ability to lead from his command position, he came back hard and fast. It was a beautiful thing, watching him march into work one morning after five days of emotional self destruction. He took charge at last, demanding everyone's very best and wasting no time summoning Bill Tawney to his office.

"Yes sir?" Chirped the head of RAINBOW's intelligence directorate.

Price turned in his chair and waved the man in, gesturing for the seat before his desk and waiting until the door shut to begin his speech.

"Have you heard from your Russian friend?" He asked at once.

Tawney, surprised and delighted to hear the gruff tone of authority in his boss' voice, nodded enthusiastically and shifted in his chair. "Lyov called me this morning, actually. The FSB got a hit on some of the… bodies at the site."

He was uncomfortable mentioning the dead in front of FIVE, but eased when he saw the words pass through his mind without so much as a dimming of the eyes.

"Did they identify them?" Was the obvious question to be asked by Price.

The intelligence head nodded. "Yes. Only two were able to be identified—what with the fire and all that. Both were Arabic. One was a nameless thug-for-hire working out of Syria. The other was called Amin Fahir, a terrorist for an ultra-radical group native to Afghanistan."

Price nodded. "What's the name? The group, I mean."

"Get ready for this, mate. The Children of God's Army."

* * *

This meeting went on for several more minutes. Tawney related things mostly told to him by Mokashev, who had spent the preceding six days in and out of intelligence meetings at Lubyanka Square. Joshua Miller, the Blackwater troop who'd been the only person to get a clear view of the two men who'd broken into the Chernobyl exclusion zone, was shown the security footage from the "Brezhnev incident." (That's what they were calling it now.) He identified one of the men—the man leading the six hostage takers in seizing the laboratory—as the intruder who'd fired on him with the AKS-74 at the gate. That much they already knew. What they hadn't known at the time, was that computer forensics specialists in Moscow had been able to sharpen the images from the laboratory's cameras. This man pointed out by Miller matched the visual description of an Arabic extremist who'd taken part in the extended imprisonment and gruesome torture of Soviet troops in the mid-eighties.

Ayana Yacoby sat in their safehouse monitoring the compound across the street. The CIA had been nice enough to donate the site to RAINBOW's reconnaissance specialists, following prolonged negotiations between Bill Tawney and his correspondent in the agency. The CIA intelligence officers using it had been reluctant to turn it over so suddenly—it was, of course, the perfect location to recruit locals for deniable ops—but a stern demand from the Deputy Director of Intelligence fixed that.

With her was Antonio Maldini, an Italian with experience in high-risk stealth operations who understood the meaning of human intelligence. (HUMINT.)

Their current mission was known by only a handful of people in the world—two of them were sitting in the only room in the safehouse. RAINBOW FIVE, who had authorized it, had been planning such an operation since the loss of Louis Loiselle and the rest of Team Two in Russia. It only took a passing mention from Bill Tawney to get him to give the "go-code." Once the paperwork was out of the way—what little of it there truly was—Yacoby and Maldini had been put on a jet privately leased by RAINBOW under a false corporate name and flown to Islamabad.

But the grim nature of their mission wasn't what troubled her, a woman of Israeli descent who happened to be running the extremely covert and clandestine Operation: VENGEFUL TALON in the heart of Islamabad. (Though Afghan in nature, the Children of God's Army was more prominent in the eastern regions of Pakistan.) What came as a bit of a leap was that the op was not authorized under the watch of RAINBOW SIX, which meant that Vincent Palmer had no clue it existed.

Why that was the case, Yacoby didn't know. Neither did Maldini. But it wasn't their job to know. Their job was to confirm that the small abandoned mosque across the street was, in fact, the base of operations for the CGA.

"Tony." She voiced. "They've got visitors. Get the picture."

Maldini shot up out of his chair and snatched the photo from their dossier on the target. It was a bit on the blurry side, and didn't show many details in his facial features or overall appearance. (In all actuality, the "photo" was a blown up still from the security cameras.) But it was enough to make a solid identification through the photo-lenses of high-powered binoculars.

* * *

Two stories down and across the street, Al-Jaali pulled his car into the ally adjacent the mosque. Saying a prayer before he got out, the Arab took his rifle off the passenger's seat and closed the driver's side door. Moving around to the back, he reached in and grasped Platov by the arm, yanking him out and onto his feet.

"Get out!" Al-Jaali raged, throwing the door shut and pushing his blindfolded captive towards the side door in the building.

Platov's leg wound wasn't improving; there were signs of infection, and he could barely walk on it. It was of no concern for Al-Jaali. This ignorant Russian physicist would be of little value to him for much longer, and when that value was gone, Platov would be a liability. Al-Jaali hated liabilities.

Platov was taken to a back room and sat down in a chair. Al-Jaali spent several minutes conversing with some of his comrades in the other areas of the base. He explained, quietly, that the others would not be coming back. They had given the ultimate sacrifice for their faith. Moments later, he went on to the good news. Platov would assist them in the construction of their weapon. Yes, he had the information they needed. No, finding a way to release him once said information was extracted would _not _be a problem.

Al-Jaali took several hours to rest. He hadn't slept since leaving their apartment in Moscow, and that had been over forty-eight hours ago. As he drifted off, he found it a miracle that he'd lasted so long. He was asleep just as soon as the thought had come to him.

* * *

Yacoby documented what she'd just seen. The subject had arrived at the target location at… 1300 Hours. He'd entered, and had not come back out. She was just about to check something with Maldini, when the Italian observed an unusually high-end vehicle driving down the street. It slowed to a halt in front of the mosque.

* * *

He let his armed escort open the door for him, allowing him to get out easily enough. With him he took a latched attaché case and walked seamlessly into the front doors of the large building, again allowing his bodyguard to take care of the door.

Clearing his throat awkwardly in the small crowd of chattering, excited men, he walked through the prayer room and towards the back corridors. "Where is Hosaam?" He asked several men, all pointing him to a door that yielded a single response when he knocked forcefully on it.

"One moment!" The commander of the CGA barked at his caller, producing the sounds of hasty dressing and opening the door a moment later.

"You are early." Al-Jaali noted, leaving the doorway and gesturing for his guest and his armed escort to follow him. They made their way down the hallway for several seconds, until they arrived at a door near the emergency exit. Al-Jaali fished a key out of his pocket and let them all in, flicking a light switch and gesturing towards the center of the room.

Platov looked up just as Al-Jaali reached to snatch the blindfold off his face. The Russian physicist looked up at his new environment: the first sight he'd seen since leaving his homeland in a Cessna at gunpoint. There where two men in the room, with third shutting the door he'd been shoved through—was it five hours ago? He wasn't sure.

"We have a task for you, infidel." The unknown man said, the one standing beside his kidnapper. This man, dressed in a tan suit and Muslim headdress, motioned for the man from the laboratory to open a heavy metal case sitting on a table nearby. Inside, Platov couldn't believe what he saw. So much so that it almost prevented him from recognizing the unfamiliar man in the suit.

In the case on the table were salvaged radioactive fuel rods, the kind he'd heard were stolen from the Chernobyl exclusion zone. Looking up in horror, he stared into the face of the man in the suit, while he explained that Platov would need to use the materials given to him to construct a SADM bomb, which they happened to already be in possession of.

Just as Al-Jaali moved to unbind his hands, Platov realized where he'd heard the voice of this newcomer. He'd heard it before, on television. Barking out speeches of radical Islam sugarcoated with politically correct terms and dumbed-down philosophies. It was the voice of a great orator. It was the voice of the President of Pakistan. The man in the tan suit was Mohammed Abdul-Basir.

A/N: Yes, I know Abdul-Basir wasn't too prominent a character in the story, but he _is _in fact the man mentioned by Ryan and his cabinet in the first chapter. (In the Heart of Every Man.) He is the man who was suspected of being a dangerous radical, who just happens to be Pakistan's president. (And, according to this chapter, he's been helping out Al-Jaali's friends the Children of God's Army. Or, at the very least, backing them.) Now, this isn't the big revelation moment, but just give it a little bit. This will start to get crazy in a couple chapters. Later everybody. Hope you liked it!


	9. A Renegade's Absolution

A/N: Blegh, I... I just don't know what the hell to say about this one. The text just feels very disjointed and messed up. Well, maybe that will just fix itself in the next few chapters. This whole bit regarding the op in Pakistan and Price's emotions following the incident have just been like some kind of uncharted territory. From a writer's standpoint, of course. Anyway, I hope you all get some kind of entertainment out of this. Enjoy guys, and please review. (Figured I'd get that out of the way now.) Things will get better soon guys, the good parts are coming up.

-Chapter Eight-

A Renegade's Absolution

Yacoby stared down at the mosque. No one had been in or out all day. The only notable activity since their arrival in Islamabad had been the arrival of their target, codenamed RENEGADE, whom had yet to emerge from the building. That, and the brief appearance of the unnamed visitor from the previous day. Anyone who traveled in an armored Ford with a protective agent watching over him meant "high profile," and that was worth noting.

As soon as common practice dictated, Yacoby handed over the binoculars to Maldini for them to switch places. In a procedure not unlike those used by snipers remaining stationary for long periods of time, Maldini and Yacoby swapped places every thirty minutes or so. One could only stay focused staring through a lens for so long.

The Israeli jotted some things down. The pictures she'd taken of RENEGADE had been sent through an electronic connection to Hereford, and reportedly matched the stills from the Brezhnev facility's cameras. That was good; they'd successfully followed the trail of breadcrumbs. The mosque's second, more wealthy visitor was yet to be identified. He'd long since left with his pricy sedan and bodyguard—lapdog?

_It's only a matter of time. _She thought idly. _Sooner or later, they'll screw up._

* * *

There were six pages of notes when Platov was finished. These Arabs weren't giving him much to go off of, a fact that earned him a rifle butt to the face when he tried stressing it. Finally accepting defeat, the Russian physicist simply yielded to his captors and began assembling a complex set of instructions for what they wanted to do. The most important part, he claimed repeatedly, was safety. The spent fuel rods from Chernobyl were still radioactive, he'd said. Contact with them could be dangerous.

Platov finally set the pen down and told the Arab watchdog to fetch his master. The man who'd been standing guard over him for the past day left reluctantly and returned a few minutes later with Al-Jaali, who snatched the notes off the table and gave them a quick once-over.

"I am impressed." He said at last, handing them to the watchdog, who vanished once more out the door of his tiny prison. "You have served your purpose, infidel. You have done what we asked of you, and now you will be set free."

Al-Jaali brought Platov, unrestrained, out of the small supply closet he'd been held in and walked him out through the side door he'd first come in through when they'd arrived. It was a process frighteningly similar to a criminal marching to the hangman's noose. Were they truly releasing him, he wondered. No, that would not be. These Arabs did not let you go. They kept you until you'd served your purpose and did away with you like an animal.

As expected, once outside Al-Jaali thrust Platov to the ground and demanding that he face the wall nearby. The Russian scoffed and simply told his captor, very calmly, that he wouldn't be able to dehumanize him by staring into the back of his head. Platov explained that he'd have to look his victim in the eyes.

Which was fine, apparently. In a swift motion Al-Jaali drew a Browning Hi-Power from his belt and raised it in his right hand, shooting Platov once in the face. Before the physicist's body had even hit the ground, the commander of the Children of God's Army put one more round in his chest. Just to be sure.

Shoving the body into the truck of his overused car, Al-Jaali did what he could to clean away the blood that had been shed, but worried not of any consequences that might arise from it. They had political connections, after all, and that would keep them safe.

* * *

Maldini's loud profanity was not what brought Yacoby to the window; she'd heard the gunshots just as clearly as her companion had. In a moment she was staring through the glass down at the site below. From their position they could just barely see the alleyway adjacent to the target building, but that was enough. Yacoby saw the body of Vladimir Platov and shouted out blasphemes that she was lucky no one besides her heard.

"The camera, quick!" She yelled next, but it was redundant. By the time she'd gotten the words out, Maldini was already snapping off pictures at a machine gun rate.

What she did next might have been done in haste, but unscheduled killings made things complicated. Yacoby walked across the room and grabbed the phone off its base, dialing a number that connected her to a secure line sourced in the United Kingdom.

Price needed to know about this.

* * *

Palmer walked into front entrance with the emotionless expression that preceded a long day of hard, arduous work. Making his way throughout the maze of corridors and cubicles until he reached the elevator that would take him to the third floor, he waited patiently for the car to arrive. Moments later the stainless steel doors _whoosh_ed open and granted him entry.

It wasn't until a minute later that he approached the door to FIVE's office. As he did every day, Palmer took the route through Price's office to his own, instead of simply walking through the door that connected the office of RAINBOW SIX to the adjoining corridor.

But rather than finding his deputy director working on a stack of paperwork loosely related to their actual job, the former Commander-in-Chief of USSOCOM walked in to find Price talking on the phone. At his entrance, FIVE grimaced and looked away. The remaining moments of the conversation were carried out in a hushed, quickened tone. In seconds, Price had already hung up on whoever had been on the other end.

"Who was that?" Palmer asked absently.

"My wife, sir. Just wanted to tell me something about our son." FIVE replied curtly. There was still considerable tension between them regarding the outcome of the operation outside Moscow. Both men blamed each other, but neither would dare admit so.

In all honest, Eddie Price had not shaken the horrific memories of that day. Seeing his friends incinerated on a television screen… that was just too much for any man to watch and not be effected by. While he'd ditched the self-pity stage and wore the outward appearance of a man with no inner demons, doing so had been done only with the wishes of his dead comrades in mind. They would have expected more of their leader, he knew, and that was motivation enough to pick himself up. Still, the image of that explosion on the satellite's thermal feed flashed in his mind every now and then. Every time he closed his eyes; its appearance etched into the backs of his eyelids. What a horrific thing to watch, he pondered alone sometimes.

"Okay." Palmer accepted the lie as truth and strode through the door in the back of the office into his own, where he wasted no time in claiming the high-backed chair behind his large desk. One minute in, and he was already working on something. Never let it be said that Vincent Palmer was not a hard worker.

Several minutes into the beginning of the day, however, SIX came across a file in his personal stack of paperwork that stated that one of RAINBOW's recon specialists was wanted for some kind of training program at the CIA's recruitment training facility, The Farm. Palmer punched a key that summoned Eddie Price to his door.

"Yes sir?" FIVE chimed from the doorway.

"Mr. Price, could you please bring Tony Maldini to my office, please?" Palmer asked, politely as he cared to.

Price frowned. "Sir, Maldini isn't here today."

"What do you mean?"

"He called in sick, I think his wife is taking him to the hospital right now, actually."

SIX didn't buy it, setting down his pen and reading glasses to give Price a cold, hard stare. "Mr. Price, where is Antonio Maldini?"

* * *

Yacoby set the phone down again and took a seat at the wooden table before her notepad. She spent the next several seconds documenting the execution of Al-Jaali's hostage. The Russian, she remembered. Price had said his name was Platov. _Was_, she realized ruefully. And as always, the thought came to her mind that maybe—_maybe_—they could have stopped it.

She'd begged FIVE for clearance to do something, anything! The killing of this Platov could only mean that they had no use for him. The unsettling aspect was that if these Arabs had no use for a Russian physicist, then that meant they'd already gotten out of him what they'd needed in the first place. Yacoby was certain that the targets had a nuclear device on hand, and they were the only ones who could do anything about it.

"He hasn't come back out yet." Maldini observed, and Yacoby scribbled that down too.

* * *

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Palmer raged from behind his desk. He was standing now, the high leather chair sliding away behind him, while Price recounted the conception and recent initiation of the secretive Operation: VENGEFUL TALON. "Mr. Price, I don't know how things used to run around here, but you will _not _go behind my back on things like this and waste valuable RAINBOW resources."

FIVE almost laughed at that, but there was nothing pleasant about this conversation. "If this is your idea of a 'waste of resources,' then I think you need to take a step back and rethink things. I watched ten men die in an explosion-"

"Which has obviously effected your ability to serve as Deputy Director."

Price took that more personally than he should have, but before a proper retort could have been made, the phone in the next room rang loud enough to travel through the door into the office of RAINBOW SIX. At once, FIVE turned around and marched into his office with Palmer on his heels and answered the phone immediately.

"Price." He said. "No, stand by for now. I'm still trying to figure that out."

Before anything else could be said, Palmer smacked the button on the base that activated the speaker phone. In an instant Yacoby's voice flooded into the room through the phone.

"Sir, we need to do something. If our assumptions are anywhere near accurate, then these men are in possession of some kind of weapon." She announced, her voice strained with the burden of sitting idly by while murderers put together a nuclear device. That was, after all, the only explanation for the presence and killing of Dr. Platov. "Give us permission to move on the target building. We can get inside and check things out. Trust me."

As usual, Palmer pounced on the opportunity to speak. "Yacoby, this is SIX. That is a negative, you are to break off from this operation immediately. Do you understand?"

There was silence.

RAINBOW FIVE stared at Palmer for several tense seconds, until finally lowering his head so that his mouth hung mere inches from the base. "Ayana, it's Eddie. That's a 'go,' you have permission to move on the target building. Try not to get yourselves killed in the process." Then he hung up.

Palmer stood in silence, finally managing to raise an accusing finger at Price. "You're done. Do you hear me? That was completely without precedence to authorize that action without my permission! I don't know how things used to run around here, but this isn't some circus anymore!"

The former SAS color sergeant nearly lost it at that, bearing down upon Vincent Palmer like a raging grizzly protecting her cubs. In a moment he was standing there, there faces only inches apart as Price fumed like a rabid dog. "Don't you dare threaten me! I was serving in RAINBOW when you were still sitting in an office in the bloody Pentagon, _sir_! Now I don't care if you agree with me or not, the fact of the matter is that I find your leadership a threat to our unit."

"_My _leadership?" Palmer barked back. "Let's not forget that it was you, Mr. Price, who lead ten men to their deaths!"

Price's blood went cold at those words, and the initial pang of guilty remorse was no sooner replaced by a wave of unbridled rage. The Deputy Director glared daggers into Palmer's forehead, his mind riddled with wishes of reaching out and ringing the bastard's little neck. Instead, he managed to summon up the powers of self-control that lay within him.

"Why don't we let President Ryan and his committee decide that, mate." And with that, RAINBOW FIVE excused himself to make a quick trip to the restroom down the hallway.

* * *

Yacoby reached returned to the room with the window, carrying a small box that had been previously stored in a cupboard near the door. The box was set on the table with a _thud_, while the ex-Mossad agent unlatched the lid and opened it. Inside were two Beretta 8000 Cougar pistols, both with sound suppressors affixed to the ends of the barrels. She removed the handguns, and their magazines, and handed one to Maldini. In an instant both weapons were loaded and shoved into holsters that hung tight on their hips.

There was still the matter that they were disobeying the commander of their organization, and that such actions could be considered treacherous. But the general consensus following the loss of most of Team Two was that Vincent Palmer was not well liked by RAINBOW's operatives.

They trusted Eddie Price far more.

And so, if he said that what they were about to do was okay, then it was okay, she figured while both of them donned the Kevlar vests designed to protect them from small caliber bullets. The issue stopped there. Both specialists trusted their Deputy Director, and realized the necessity of acting now while they still had a chance. If Palmer couldn't see that, then that was his problem. It did little to calm her nerves.

In took them two minutes to descend down the flight of stairs in the building and emerge, on street level, from the front door. Checking to make sure there was no traffic, both scurried hastily across the street and cautiously approached the mosque from the same side as the alleyway. Their approach went unnoticed; most of the windows in the building had been boarded up for quite some time.

Finally they reached the door through which their target had frequently entered and exited. Drawing their Berettas, Yacoby let Maldini take point. Either these Arabs expected trouble, the woman noted, or they were very stupid. The door was unlocked and yielded to their entrance with the slight twist of its battered doorknob.

The inside of the mosque was just as they had expected: large and empty. There was never anything that had suggested it was occupied by a large number of subjects in the first place. Both of them kept their pistols leveled in any case. Moving down a long hallway, neither saw it coming when a frightened shout from the direction of the prayer room announced their presence.

Maldini swiveled to the right and popped off two shots at the man who'd emerged from the doorway nearby, carrying an Uzi in his hand. The weapon "coughed" as both rounds went cleanly into the head, drilling two small holes that left him tumbling lifelessly through the doorway and onto the floor.

"Shit!" Yacoby cursed, in English, and began moving towards the doorway. Inside the prayer room two men were hustling to reach their weapons, both of which had been left at the front entrance. The Israeli intelligence expert fired five rounds, two at the first and three at the second. Both targets were dropped in seconds.

Her Italian partner already had his eyes locked on a door, and closed in on it with what was either courage or stupidity. One hand on the doorknob and the other tightly gripping his pistol, he could hear someone inside. There was a somewhat mechanical sound, like an electronic whirring. Seconds later he threw the door open, spotting one individual inside and raising the Beretta to fire.

But the face stopped him. The face of this man in the room matched the vague display they'd been studying for the past day and a half. It was their target, the man from the Russian incident. The man who'd killed Vladimir Platov. RENEGADE.

Instead of shooting him once in the head, as he'd previously had a mind to do, Maldini bound forward and grabbed his shoulder with the free hand. In the same motion he brought the butt of his pistol down across RENEGADE's face, cracking bone and bruising tissue in a powerful blow that sent this Arab careening into the far wall. Then the gun came up again.

"Don't move!" Maldini screamed. "Don't!"

Yacoby came in a moment later and cringed at the site. The extremist they'd hunted into the country was now slumped against the wall opposite the door, groping his face and making an expression that might have looked like a pained grimace. At the same time she surveyed the room. Apparently their target had been in the middle of sending a message to somebody else—their wealthy visitor from the day before? Next to a fax machine was a sizable stack of lined papers with something scribbled on them. Right beside it was a shredder that had just been turned on. Yacoby was quick in gathering them and leaving them where she would be able to photograph them for future examination.

A/N: They finally got the son of a bitch ya'll! Al-Jaali is finished! But is the story over yet? Not even close! In the next few chapters I'll return to some of the previous subplots and elaborate on Abdul-Basir's involvement in Al-Jaali's plot to make a nuke. (As well as the whereabouts of said nuclear device.) As I said before, reviews are appreciated. Later!


	10. Ultimatum

A/N: I'm kinda' proud of this one. I think I handled parts of it a lot better than I have the past two chapters. Anyway, Al-Jaali's in custody, now you're gonna find out what they do with him. And, just for the record, I pulled Yacoby and Maldini from the games. (RAINBOW doesn't have recon specialists in the book, so I needed to improvise a little.) Any other things you all have to point out, go ahead. I'm kind of running dry on things to improve in the story, even though there isn't much left. There will probably be another four chapters or so, one might be a bit longer. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy, as usual.

-Chapter Nine-

Ultimatum

The marines standing guard at the gate into the embassy had been more than a little worried at the sight of an Israeli and an Italian carrying a bloody and battered Arab to their gate, but the message five minutes later from Ambassador Keating was enough to label them expected guests. Reluctantly, Yacoby and Maldini were granted access to the US Embassy to Pakistan, strolling in through the front gate whilst dragging a disgruntled Al-Jaali behind them.

The CIA station chief was briefed on their situation. It was clear to both RAINBOW operatives that an interrogation was necessary, and had to be performed as quick as possible. The only "friendly" territory—Pakistan was still technically an ally to RAINBOW, but they could spare no mistakes with this operation—nearby was the American embassy in Islamabad. It had been a brief walk to the car, which they drove as discreetly as possible to the large, very "American" looking building that was the embassy. Once inside, the prisoner was promptly carted off to a back room used by the embassy's legal attaché, while the two reconnaissance specialists were briefed and given the rules. No torture, was the only serious one. That was fine, they both claimed, and were then given access to their half-conscious captive.

Several questions were asked. Few were answered. Between the feigned grogginess and unyielding resolve, Al-Jaali managed to resist their mild pressure. "I don't know what you're talking about," he'd say when asked about the notes he was about to begin shredding. "I don't know any Vladimir Platov," was his pitiful reply to their recount of the execution. It frustrated Yacoby, but Maldini managed to keep his cool throughout. It was a rather misleading gesture, she knew. Tony Maldini was capable of many things, and it was known at Hereford that he was the most devious when he was at his quietest. He was planning something, she knew instantly. Which, when her fast and forward approach failed, she was all too happy to hear him out on.

"He's too stubborn and short-sighted to respond to pleasantries." Maldini started with. It was true. The Russians, among others, had experimented with more subtle methods of interrogation. But such methods tended to consume large amounts of time, a resource they were preciously short on. "We'll need to get rough. Find the station chief. Tell him we need authorization to get a bit more direct. Tell him there's a possible nuclear threat involved. He'll give it to us."

Yacoby frowned. "How can you be sure?"

Maldini just nodded. "I have had experience with the Americans before, in Italy. They will give it to us, I am sure. Just the mention of the word "nuke" will set them off."

She conceded and excused herself to find the CIA station chief. If her friend was right, and she was sure he was, then that was good. The Arab might break faster than she'd anticipated, she thought hopefully.

* * *

"Ten people, Sergey." Mokashev finished, closing up his briefcase and standing to leave. "Ten people died in that explosion, good friends to Russia. I don't think I need to tell you that we need to do as much as we can to help them with their inquiries."

Golovko nodded pensively and cleared his throat. "I understand, Lyov. You may tell your friend in Hereford that he will have the FSB's full cooperation."

Mokashev nodded and left the office. Still sitting behind the desk, Sergey Nikolay'ch Golovko stared off into space for several minutes. There was much to contemplate in what he planned to do next. You could only exploit the press so much in the political world, but this shouldn't be a problem. No, just one more snippet of information that would carefully drip down the food chain. Golovko lifted the phone off its base and dialed a number.

"Misha? It is Sergey." He said at once. "I have something for you. Yes, another incident. This one happened just outside Moscow, just recently."

* * *

Al-Jaali kept his eyes half-shut and stared around the room as absently as he could. He was sure the Americans would have cameras in there, but he dared not look up to search for any. Instead he would maintain his guise of tired exasperation and pretend to be ignorant for as long as the tactic lasted. When his captors realized the ruse, well then things would simply be left to Allah.

The interrogators returned, he saw at the sound of the door opening. Just the man this time, he noted. Where was the Jew? It didn't matter, this—Italian?—was the calmer of the two anyway. His presence before had been so silent and subtle as to make Al-Jaali question his competence. Didn't he know how to interrogate someone? If not for the fractured bone plate in his face that said otherwise, he would have guessed that the fool was simply a failure at being a man. What kind of man stayed quiet and let his women do his talking?

"We know you know about the device." Maldini said, taking a seat across from the confused Al-Jaali and lighting a cigarette. "Tell me, what is your name?"

He looked up pitifully, letting his mouth hang low and dimming his eyelids. "Hadi Kahmir."

Maldini nodded and blew out smoke into the air around him. It had the desired effect. The AC was off in the tiny interview room. The cameras, he was sure, were switched off. The light was considerably low. It all worked together in some sick fashion to create a scene that would slowly begin to frighten the "guest." Al-Jaali would soon cease to see a quiet professional across from him; he would begin to see a dangerous, obscured figure of punishment.

"Well, Hadi Kahmir, these are pictures we have of you raiding a government laboratory outside Moscow." He slid the stills from the Brezhnev cameras across the table, after withdrawing them from the small briefcase on the table. "We can place you at the Chernobyl exclusion zone following the theft of a stockpile of spent radioactive fuel rods. And you were apprehended in possession of intricate instructions on how to construct a nuclear bomb, in a mosque full of armed extremists, after killing a Russian physicist execution style. Tell me, if you were in my position, what would you think? Hosaam?"

Al-Jaali's eyes snapped open for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for Maldini to notice. "I am not a terrorist." He proclaimed.

What the RAINBOW specialist took out next from the briefcase was a manila folder, adorned with ghastly striped tape around the edges that signified information that was highly sensitive and required special permission just to view. He set in on the table and opened it. "Hosaam Al-Jaali, your name is. Born in Afghanistan, late 1974. Just prior to the Soviet invasion, I see. Your mother was killed in a bombing raid on the _Mujahideen _camp you were staying at. Your sister, who survived, was taken captive by some delinquent Russian soldiers and raped repeatedly until she, too, died a week later. Suspected in connection with numerous terrorist attacks against the USSR, and—supposedly—responsible for the murder of a Mossad official who got in your way."

Silence.

"The Russians, they do not like you. Neither do the Israelis. I wonder who would be more enthusiastic to get their hands on you?" Maldini stared across the table at his prisoner with as much intensity as his personality allowed, before leaning back in the chair and taking a final drag on his cigarette. "The fact is, Hosaam, that if you do not cooperate, we have no reason to continue holding you. But the Afghans don't want you, and the same goes for Pakistan. Which means you have a choice of being dropped off to the Israelis, who want you kill you, or the Russians, who want to torture you _before_ killing you. What do you think is a more pitiful way to die? In a Soviet gulag being electrocuted by a former KGB intelligence officer with a hard-on for torture, or being hanged by bitter Jews who want revenge for their comrade?"

_This can't be happening. _Al-Jaali's conscience insisted. _The Russians? The Israelis? This cannot be happening. Allah would never let that happen! He would never abandon me in the hands of these… no, this _has_ to be a bluff._

"You are lying." Al-Jaali said at once. It was his second mistake of the day.

Maldini let a victorious smirk tug at the corner of his lips before snuffing out the cigarette in its ash tray on the table. "Watching us right now, with the CIA station chief assigned to the embassy, are men from FSB and Mossad. They both want to take you home, Hosaam. You'll be killed wherever you go and mounted on the wall like a prized trophy. The only true decision is where this will happen. Unless you tell us about the bomb, of course. Maybe we could work something out under those circumstances."

* * *

Coordinating an itinerary with Secret Service was one of the easier aspects of his job, Ryan had realized upon his appointment to the office of the POTUS. It was really just a matter of tweaking the schedule to find out who could occupy what little slot on the calendar. Ryan didn't have any overseas trips—!!!—for once, which meant that an easy process was made that much easier. (Trips were often hellish bureaucratic tasks.)

"Mohammed Abdul-Basir wants to meet you." Said Emile Johnson, the head of Ryan's protection detail. Johnson and Ryan got along reasonably well, better than the last president, Johnson wasn't reluctant to admit. "Says he wants to meet with you to discuss the supposed allegations of radical presences in his regime."

Ryan pondered that. "Can't we just do it over the phone or something?"

Johnson shook his head. "Nah. He told us it was something that had to be done personally. Guy's got a lot of stones to make a request like that. After all, you are the most powerful man in the world, you know."

"Yeah. Why don't I feel like it?"

* * *

"It will be in Washington. In a few days. I do not know where or when." Al-Jaali admitted, his voice tainted with the most obvious traces of bitterness and contempt. How had he allowed himself to succumb to the threats of these infidels? Allah was in control, was he not? So why had he, the one who'd always been recognized as the most faithful of his peers, given in under the pressure of their threats?

Maldini nodded. "Who is the man who visited you? The wealthy one, in the tan suit and headdress that came the other day?"

"I do not know his name."

"You are lying, Hosaam." The Italian noted, and sighed. "I cannot help you if you do not tell me everything you know about the bomb."

Al-Jaali scowled at him. "Then you will not help me. I will tell you nothing more on the subject."

At hearing that, Maldini made a gesture towards the two-way mirror and packed up his folder and notes. A minute later the station chief from CIA came in, and watched two marines restrain Al-Jaali before escorting him out of the room and down the maze of corridors to a holding cell where he would remain until the Russians or Israelis made a bid for his fate. There would be no action taken to promise him refuge from either side, and Maldini's "promise" would not see fruition. Hosaam Al-Jaali's extremist career was over.

* * *

Price read through the files carefully. The subject, Hosaam Al-Jaali, had confirmed the threat of a nuclear device to be detonated on United States soil. Somewhere in Washington, within the time span of a few days. The pictures from the stakeout were being ran through the CIA's database of known terrorists, while Bill Tawney did what he could to handle the question of what to do with Al-Jaali. The Americans didn't want him, FIVE had been informed by Ambassador Keating. The Russians had expressed interest in taking him into custody, but Mossad was much more insistent in their requests. So much to take into consideration, Tawney realized.

There was much that needed to be done. A confirmed nuclear threat meant that several notifications had to be made. A warning was immediately sent to the target country, which meant that it was immediately sent to President Ryan. RAINBOW's threat level was increased to "severe." A number of other protocols had to be meant in response to the confirmation, not the least of which being that all teams had to be placed on alert.

Official inquiries were set in motion. Through Lyov Mokashev, Bill Tawney was able to obtain a more extensive history on their only known subject, Al-Jaali. The problem was—as always—that this compiled history was rather sketchy in certain areas. There were few reliable specifics. Still, they realized, it was better than nothing.

It was because of this revelation that any action to meet with Ryan's committee regarding Palmer's leadership would have to be postponed. Price's breach in protocol to initiate VENGEFUL TALON would be overlooked for the time being while RAINBOW's intelligence community went to work trying to track down the bomb. Their only current initiative was to locate the extremists' nuclear device.

* * *

President Mohammed Abdul-Basir boarded the plane in the dead of night. His transit to the airport had been done with the utmost secrecy, only him and his most senior protective personnel were aware of it. With him were no less than eleven armed gentlemen from the Pakistani military, dressed in cheap suits with Israeli Uzi submachine guns draped around their shoulders. The crew worked on the usual preflight checks while Abdul-Basir placed the large silver briefcase on the floor of the cabin near the sofa.

_Just large enough to contain a bomb. _He mused whimsically before sprawling out on the sofa to catch some shut-eye. His headdress rumpled awkwardly underneath his head as he slowly drifted off. _Soon enough. Hosaam's imprisonment will not be in vain._

A/N: It should be painfully obvious what's going to happen by now, but rest assured that there are a couple curve balls left. Seeing as how this fic is going to coming to a close in a little while, I'll say in advance that I hope you all have enjoyed reading thus far. I'll continue to post stories similar to this one, so if you all ever want a good war tale set in modern times, check me out every now and again. As always, please review, and have an awesome day.


	11. Failure to Comply

A/N: Yeah, I know some out there are probably wondering "What the hell? This bastard took WEEKS to upload his best story on the site!" Well, to be honest, I had this chapter finished for a little while. But I've been struggling with myself on whether or not to upload it? Why? Well here's my dilemma: I can't tell if this segment is getting too "over-the-top." What you're about to read would probably never happen in a vintage Clancy novel, and comes as a but unpredictable. It seems a bit _too_ epic, and detracts from the strict tone of authenticity I've been trying to set throughout the story. Nevertheless, it's been too damn long since I updated, so here you go. By now the ending is pretty predictable, and standard fare for a story like this. I hope you enjoy the rest of the ride, and be sure to let me know what you think at the bottom.

-Chapter Ten-

Failure to Comply

"A nuclear threat?" Ryan asked incredulously. With him in the Oval Office was DCI Cash, and together they'd been in the midst of discussing turnouts in a CIA operation to neutralize Hezbollah training camps in Lebanon and Iran. Johnson's intrusion had been a mere inconvenience when he'd first walked through the door. "I don't understand. You're saying that RAINBOW has solidly confirmed a nuclear threat to the United States? How?"

Johnson shook his head. "It's still uncertain. They claim to have the testimony of an Islamic extremist picked up in Pakistan. Islamabad, I believe."

Ryan pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Pakistan. Why am I not surprised?"

"I don't know, sir, but we need to evacuate the area. RAINBOW's source says the detonation will occur in Washington, somewhere within a few days. We have the bunker in Virginia we can lay low in until the threat passes over."

"No." And Ryan shook his head again. "This meeting with Abdul-Basir needs to happen. If we have to question his credibility, fine. But we can just shy away. Right, Aaron?"

Cash sighed. "It's not inappropriate to assume that sending him back home, especially when _he _requested the meeting, will have serious consequences later on. After all, if Mahmoud Ahmadinejad had come to America and asked to meet with the President to discuss his nuclear testing and radical views, would you turn him away?"

Johnson sent him a cold glare.

The DCI fidgeted slightly. "At least, that's how I feel. It's not my department, Mr. President."

"No. Abdul-Basir wants to meet with me, then he will." Ryan demanded. "But, I suppose if RAINBOW can provide more actionable testimony, then I'll consider it. This discussion is too big an opportunity to turn up."

* * *

Iltchenko shook his head at the video screen. Connecting him to Hereford was a powerful wireless communication network that allowed him to converse with RAINBOW SIX and Bill Tawney. Their investigations into Al-Jaali's claims had brought into question the construction of the CGA's nuclear device. Tawney's friendship with Mokashev, who's position within FSB granted him the knowledge of such incidents, revealed the specifics of what had been stolen from Chernobyl. Spent fuel rods, they now knew. But how could one make a bomb with radioactive fuel rods? The notes Al-Jaali had been so eager to destroy held the answer.

A Special Atomic Demolition Munition—SADM—was the framework around which the terrorists planned to design their weapon, which was made using the information extracted from Platov before his execution. The SADM bomb, a project tested in the 1960s—but scrapped—by the US military, was a family of man-portable nuclear weapons for use in Europe in the event of a Soviet invasion. Essentially a suitcase bomb, the SADM was supposed to be used for the destruction of key routes of communication, such as the Fulda Gap. Carried in by a parachutist who acted as a courier, the SADM would be placed and armed, while the courier and a second parachutist to act as support would retreat into the sea. There they would be picked up by a submarine or high-speed watercraft.

A SADM's value to a suicide bomber was something that didn't require an explanation. Much more preferable in comparison to a torso-bound vest of C4 plastic explosives, the Special Atomic Demolition Munition could essentially serve as a suitcase bomb. When added to a cache of spent fuel rods from Chernobyl and a Russian physicist to put the two together, red flags went off in Hereford.

"No, Russia has not come in possession of any such weapons." Iltchenko claimed. "Nor have we come across any information regarding the illicit theft of such a weapon from local arms dealers."

Palmer nodded. "President Iltchenko, let me remind you what will happen if such a detonation happens on US soil: you will understand that the Americans will respond vehemently. We have irrefutable evidence linking the construction of a nuclear device to fuel rods stolen from the Chernobyl exclusion zone, under the protection of mercenaries hired by _your_ government."

"Facilitated by the fact that your organization refused to help!" Iltechnko snapped. "Do not play blame games with me! This was not my fault!"

"Perhaps." SIX noted. "But, the Americans will not see it that way."

* * *

Ambassador Bartholomew Keating let himself into his office that afternoon, following a luncheon with the Pakistani House Speaker. When he entered, he found the pictures lying on his desk. Photos taken during the counter-terrorist operation at the mosque. After checking his email and leaving his coat by the door, Keating found himself sifting through the snapshots, his eyes devoid of any interest whatsoever.

It wasn't until he came across one of the later pictures that he perked up. Also with the pictures was Yacoby's notes on all that had transpired during their stakeout. Scrawled out in the most slipshod handwriting he'd ever seen, was a note that corresponded with the time written on the picture.

"1300 Hours: Unidentified subject arrives/enters target building."

The photo in question showed a man in a tan suit, with the customary headdress, walking with an escort into the mosque that the Arab had been captured at. What concerned him was the face. The photo was taken at such an angle so that only have the face was visible, but Keating could recognize it nonetheless.

He skimmed through the pictures. The next few were just consecutive stills of the outside of the building. Then he found another one, and this was enough to confirm what the ambassador already suspected.

"1331 Hours: Subject 2 exits target building."

The face was clearly visible now. Keating saw the face of President Mohammed Abdul-Basir leaving his private car in the company of his protective agent, and entering the mosque. It had to be him, the features were distinct and explicit. Telltale signs of his identity.

"My God."

* * *

It was not until late afternoon that the information reached RAINBOW. Tawney checked it with Ambassador Keating, just to make sure it was credible. Yes, apparently he was aware of the what allegations this meant. Yes, he was sure it was Abdul-Basir. Tawney then, of course, brought it before Price first and foremost.

"Shit. Is this real, Bill?" RAINBOW FIVE asked, hoping for anything but to be told it was. He cursed when Tawney nodded his head.

"Yeah. The picture matches with a dozen taken at the man's public addresses. It's the Pakistani President alright." The head of RAINBOW intelligence responded, and then: "Eddie, what the hell are we supposed to do with this? Keating says Abdul-Basir is out of the country, this right after a confirmed nuclear threat against the Americans and a SADM bomb going missing. This is heavy stuff."

Price nodded. "Bloody hell, I'm going to need to bring this before Palmer."

* * *

Their wheels touched down at roughly noon that day. Abdul-Basir's plane taxied off the runway to a small designated space off to the side. There to meet them was a small band of Secret Service agents tasked with protecting their diplomatic guest. They stood around looking as authoritative and sophisticated as ever, with earpieces that let a voice chirp away in their ears and Sig-Sauer P228 handguns under their blazers. The plane's crew went down the checklist; opening the door only when they had become absolutely sure that the plane was immobile and the engines were off. Abdul-Basir and his crew of protective agents clambered off the aircraft into limousines provided by, none other than, the Secret Service.

The newer models of limousines more closely resembled an armored personnel carrier than anything else. With thick layers of steel lining the exterior, all of the windows were comprised of tinted fiberglass—specially designed to work against angry gunmen. The tires were filled with foam, not air. (As to prevent flat tires.) The driver, American, was a former marine who happened to be as big as he was deadly. He was just as qualified using a pistol as he was weaving the limo in and out of traffic.

In moments the convoy was leaving the airport, en route to a nearby hotel first, where Abdul-Basir would make any necessary stops. From there it would be a direct ride to the White House, where the two leaders would have a meeting long overdue.

There was, however, one particular issue of which required some debate. Abdul-Basir, ever distrusting of the United States, demanded to have his protective agents nearby at all times. The Secret Service was wary of allowing them on White House grounds—what choice did they have? But Abdul-Basir was firm in his stance. He would require his men with him as all times, as a "sign of good faith." The Secret Service gentlemen called Johnson, Johnson talked to Ryan. Eventually it was made clear that two, and only _two_, of Abdul-Basir's men would be permitted in the White House. That was not good enough, he'd said at first. But it was acceptable. The rest would remain just outside the building.

It was not until this obstacle was overcome that Abdul-Basir finally smirked in arrogance at his victory. Had these Americans no idea what they were letting him do?

* * *

"It's just one thing after another with you, isn't it Mr. Price?" Palmer asked, standing now as to fight off the numbness in his legs. His blazer was draped across the back of his chair, his tie loosened. The day's turnouts had been stressful on everyone: faint traces of perspiration advertised what was either a rise in the building's temperature or body issues. "Honestly, do you listen to yourself? Nuclear thefts, laboratories, and now your telling me the President of Pakistan is bringing a nuke onto American soil. You've got to be joking! This sounds like some crummy spy novel!"

"There's a confirmed nuclear threat against the America, one which directly puts the safety of the President of the United States in jeopardy. Are you honestly telling me you're going to do nothing about this?" Price stood there, eyes wide in what was a unsettling mix of fear and utter disbelief. He wasn't about to let this slip by, not after the last results of a decision made by Palmer. "Sir, this information is getting to the President, regardless of whether or not it comes from you. I'm merely giving you a chance to not make yourself look incompetent."

That earned an audible scoff from RAINBOW SIX, who leaned into the desk and sighed. "Fine, you want to go chasing fairy tales, go right ahead. You can bet your days in RAINBOW are over."

But when he looked up again he didn't see Price glaring back at him in that way that made him wince at night. All he saw was the door to his office being thrown shut, hard enough to make the trinkets on his desk rattle against the wooden top.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later Abdul-Basir was sitting across from the President of the United States in the Oval Office, with four other men present: two Secret Service and two Pakistani protective agents. Set on the floor next to Abdul-Basir's feet was the stainless steel suitcase he'd been clinging to since his arrival. The two began talking after a moment, and Johnson found it safe enough to leave the room to tend to other tasks.

The nuclear threat from RAINBOW complicated matters significantly, but that was something that could be remedied with the proper amount of paperwork. Most of which happened to be sitting on his desk. Minutes later he opened the door to his office in the West Wing and started brewing a cup of coffee in the kiosk near the door. There was still a bit of the Army Chief of Staff's special blend left, that was about the only good news he could find. He took a nice sized mug with and stirred it for several seconds before taking that usual preliminary sip and smiling contently to himself. Then he sat down and got ready to go to work. There was a proposal from FN Herstal to switch the Secret Service's standard sidearm to the 5.7mm pistol that had been staring at him for weeks.

But the phone range just in time to stop him from reading the first few lines, and cursing like a madman he snatched the device off the base and put it to his ear.

"Johnson." He started, then realized who it was. "What? You can't be serious… are you sure it's him? Son of a _bitch_! Eddie, I'll talk to you later."

Practically slamming the phone back down, Johnson was on his feet in seconds and bursting out into the adjoining corridor. Guttural screams to any nearby agent flew down the hallways in rapid motion, accompanying the sudden arrival of a chain of high-pitched staccato chattering from the direction of the Oval Office. Secret Service agents from all around the West Wing began their rapid approach. But what happened next was even more shocking.

There was an explosion. Of what nature it was or exactly where it was, Johnson was uncertain. All he knew was that, five seconds later, the protective agents whom they had denied access to the White House began coming from the northern end of the West Wing. A brief firefight broke out, with the Pakistanis being the winning side. They, of course, had automatic weapons. Uzis stolen from Israeli manufacturers did their job in cutting down the Secret Service agents who fought back only with their P228 sidearms.

Johnson spotted one and raised his own weapon, firing off two shots into his chest from down the hallway and dropping him without a second thought. But as he turned the weapon to acquire another target, a spray of Uzi fire from a third man erupted from another direction entirely. Two young Secret Service agents were killed right in front of Johnson, who doubled back before pulling the trigger three more times.

It was in the Oval Office where things had really gone to hell. Abdul-Basir stood behind the sofa, holding Ryan tightly in a headlock that threatened to cut off his circulation. Prodding Ryan's head was the muzzle of a revolver that he'd managed to sneak in thanks to the creativity of their hiding places. The first Secret Service agent in the room had been killed in a hail of 9mm rounds that had ravaged his face. The second was now standing with his knees about to buckle, aiming his P228 pitifully at Abdul-Basir who threatened to shoot Ryan.

"Drop the gun, or your President dies." Abdul-Basir shrieked, cocking the hammer on his Smith and Wesson revolver just for show. The Secret Service agent, a seasoned vet who'd been willing to put his life down for the POTUS for years, struggled with the decision he now had. Eventually resigning any chance of living he had, he held up his hands and let the pistol dangle from his finger by the trigger guard. "Okay."

A second later the two Pakistani protective agents—extremists who'd been given the job protecting Abdul-Basir in light of the man's plans for Washington—raced forward and cracked the poor man across the face with the extended stocks on their submachine guns. Tumbling backwards onto the floor, he stared up at the two men, who simply jerked him back onto his feet and then onto his knees. They did the same to Ryan, while Abdul-Basir took the stainless steel suitcase he'd gotten past the metal detectors and placed it flat on the desk of the POTUS.

"What the hell are you planning?" Ryan demanded to know, but Abdul-Basir ignored him. "Tell me!"

But it only earned him a firm strike from one of the two extremist guards. And so, the President of the United States and the only remaining man of the two Secret Service bodyguards who'd been present up until the point at which the meeting had gone sour stared on in horror as a brief line of hostages was escorted into the Oval Office. Among them the First Lady and Ryan's daughter Sally.

Cash had been right, they really _should _have paid more attention to Abdul-Basir_._

A/N: Yes, yes, how will our heroes get out of this one? Anywho, surely you all must see what I meant. Very generous storytelling here, what with the president of a friendly Arab country killing Secret Service agents and whatnot. I don't know, it looked good in the prewrite. I hope it's still a decent fic, and I hope you all enjoyed. Please review, and go about your day. Later!_  
_


	12. Black Sheep

A/N: Yes, yes, I know. I'm a lazy bastard. This story has gone far too long without any attention from its writer, and that's nobody's fault but my own. Anyway, for some inherently useless reason, the site went and removed all the asterisks from the prologue to chapter ten. All in all that's not _too _big a deal, but after going back last night and rereading the fic to myself, it makes the flow of the text very disjointed and awkward. Ultimately, I used them to separate different scenes, and they will be present in this chapter and the last, but I'm not going back to replace everything I've already uploaded for that reason alone. Sorry, it's just a waste of me time. But without further delay, here's the long overdue eleventh chapter. I hope my readers all enjoy.

-Chapter Eleven-

Black Sheep

Washington was a town where news spread fast, especially news that came from the White House. The sound of prolonged gunfire and the sight of Secret Service agents scrambling across the grounds attracted swarms of news crews almost immediately. Within a half hour's time there was broadcasted speculation on the situation inside being aired by CNN, ABC, and FOX News, and a dozen other press agencies eager to nibble on the bait of so juicy a story. None of them regarded it for what it was: a chilling attack on the government of the United States of America. For the time being, it was something to fill the five o' clock slot.

BBC was running the incident on-air a scant forty-five minutes following the first shots. This broadcast was, of course, intercepted by the watchdogs in RAINBOW's bullpen within moments. The young analyst who'd managed to catch it first had it on Tawney's desk in seconds.

"Bloody hell." He muttered, and was finally confronted with the fact that they'd been right. Keating's discovery had been real, and now there was a serious possibility that the President of Pakistan was attempting to set off a nuclear device in the US capital. "Damned that tosser Ryan! Why can't he just take the advice and send the blighter back home?"

Price shook his head. "Because doing so would have had serious political ramifications. Take this back to your office and get the US division head on the line. Tell him to have two teams ready in a half hour, and that's coming from the desk of RAINBOW FIVE."

Tawney glanced at his boss, and Price could see the hesitation in his eyes. "What about Palmer?" They said.

"Don't worry, just do it. If that son of a bitch gives us any trouble I'll kick him out the front door myself."

That was all Tawney needed, disappearing to follow the orders he'd been given. With nothing else to do but wait, Price turned his attention to watching the media spin on things. That lasted for a whole five minutes until there was a pounding at his door.

"What the hell do you think you're doing now Price?" The raging Vincent Palmer challenged, but it was around this time that FIVE had decided he'd had enough.

"My job, _Mr. Palmer_." Price shot back, and from his desk drawer he produced a heavy bundle of papers with frayed edges and coffee stains. "As I'm sure you're aware, Article 15 of RAINBOW's Operating Charter grants me permission to circumvent the authority of the acting SIX if myself and the majority of the organization executives feel you are incapable of performing your duties. In a nutshell, it's our twenty-fifth amendment. I, Mr. Palmer, am doing what needs to be done. I will appreciate it if you allow me to do so, otherwise I will remove you from your office for the time being."

The words came with an icy glare that would have made Clark himself proud.

Palmer opened his mouth to protest, then closed it when he found himself lacking the necessary words. Fuming at the nostrils, he merely did an about-face and sulked back to his office, where he would primarily concern himself with staying. out of Price's way. He did everything he could to leave the impression that he would not forget the insubordination of his deputy director.

* * *

Simulated Major Mortimer "Sam" Houston climbed into the back of the armored van with the rest of his team. Since the passing of John Clark and his own eventual return to the US, Houston had ascended to the position of Team Leader attached to the US Division. He had a modest group of seven individuals he lead, but they were generally regarded as the "elite." (As was the rest of RAINBOW.)

They loaded their MP5/10 submachine guns and double-checked to make sure each was set to "safe." It was the usual pre-mission procedure of sitting and anticipating the upcoming action.

Their vehicle stopped outside the White House grounds an hour later, and Houston let his team dismount the van and stretch their legs. The other element of the formed attack force, Team Two, was gaggling twenty feet away. Their Team Leader, an ex-SWAT officer from Texas, approached Houston as soon as he saw him.

"How's it go Sam?" Daniel Mulroy asked his good friend. "Secret Service confirmed the situation for us a couple minutes ago: these bastards have got the President, some of the first family, and a small number of White House staff. They're using them as hostages and, if our friends in the UK are right, probably trying to activate some kind of nuke."

Houston let out a whistle of disbelief at that, a gesture given only to help him cope with the magnitude of the event. He and Mulroy were both Americans, and both patriots at that. The idea of the White House being seized by terrorists… that was a lot to try to comprehend. What didn't help matters was that it was hands-down the most secure building in America; getting inside to do the business would be a presidential pain in the ass. But that only meant there was less time to waste. Houston and Mulroy went to work planning the assault immediately. For this, Secret Service would have to hand over the layout plans of the West Wing.

"The windows of the Oval Office are thick." Emile Johnson told them, catering to the wound in his arm with one hand, while using the other to point out things of interest on the floor plan. He'd been shot trying to make his way into the Oval Office, and was subsequently forced to retreat when he found himself unable to use his shooting arm. "Your snipers won't be able to shoot through them. The doors won't withstand breaching charges though. Additionally, there are cameras all around the West Wing that can be accessed from computers in the Oval Office."

"Damn," Mulroy observed dutifully. "this place is a frickin' fortress. How the hell are we supposed to pull this off?"

Johnson wanted to smile at that, but it wasn't a moment for smiles. "There's always a way…"

* * *

Ryan stared into the cold, heartless eyes of his "guest" and watched in disbelief as the former diplomatic ally began configuring the detonator of a SADM bomb—on his desk! As if that weren't enough, every time his eyes lingered just a little too long on Abdul-Basir or his device, one of his lackeys decided to remedy that by slapping his wife or daughter across the face. Ryan's own gaze towards them begged their forgiveness for his getting them into the situation, and every time it did Cathy Ryan silently reassured her husband that he'd done nothing wrong.

The rage that John Patrick Ryan felt tied up in his own office, watching a bomb being built on his desk while his family was manhandled by some Arab scum, was immeasurable. Every now and then the anger would fog his vision as mixed tears of unbridled fury and otherworldly sorrow filled his eyes. There had been only one other moment in his life that he'd felt these emotions so purely: the ULA attack on his home years ago. Sally had only been a little girl then, but she remembered the incident vividly. The assault on his home, and the teamwork of the Prince of Wales and his current Vice President, so clear a memory for all of them. So much had been at stake that day, and now he was in the same situation. _Damnit!_ He went on in his mind. _I'm the President of the United States! This isn't supposed to happen to me!_

But for all his political prestige, Ryan wasn't completely devoid of common sense. The electrical tape binding his wrists wasn't nearly as effective as duct tape might have been: he was already managing to wriggle out of it a bit. He wasn't nearly stupid enough to make a move surrounded by armed gunmen, but it was a start.

_Hang on honey._ He urged his wife, mouthing the words with a lack of noise to accompany them. She got the message clear enough, and Ryan began putting together the plan for getting them out of this mess.

* * *

"You're sure this will work?" Mulroy inquired, ever the skeptic.

Johnson shook his head. "Of course not, but, like it or not, it's your best bet."

The two Team Leaders went over the plan in their heads for what seemed like the hundredth time. By now, every step they'd take had been rehearsed again and again in their heads, but like good shooters they revisited it once more. Houston's team would be represented as "Element One" of the attack force, Mulroy's "Element Two."

Element One would move up to a steel emergency door at one end of the West Wing, which would be rigged with C4 as soon as they could confirm that no hostages were in the vicinity. At the same time, Element Two would utilize the MH-60K Night Hawk helicopter to fast rope down onto the roof. Once in place, the C4 would be detonated as a distraction, which would allow Mulroy's element on the roof to enter through doors leading into a stairwell close to the Oval Office. From there, Element Two would proceed to the Oval Office, where it was suspected that Abdul-Basir—Codename: BLACK SHEEP—was keeping the hostages. Using the new brainchild of DARPA, a highly experimental M100 EMP grenade, they'd disable all electronics within the room to disorient the terrorists while they went in and "did the business." The President, if found alive, would be hastily extracted by helicopter from the roof while Element One went in to mop up any stragglers.

For this mission, they had two objectives: to recover President Ryan—BOY SCOUT—and locate the suspected nuke.

But, of course, that would have to wait for nightfall. There was much intel that had to be verified, things like locations of hostiles and other subjects. The White House had fields up that interfered with the functions of their heartbeat sensors.

* * *

Abdul-Basir did his best to configure the SADM according to Platov's written directions, faxed by Al-Jaali before his untimely capture by the authorities. Cursing like a madman at the numerous glitches he ran into, his face lit up at the sound of a quiet trilling sound.

"Ah, yes! Do you hear that Mr. Ryan?" He sneered from behind the bomb, where the keypad was. "That is the sound of your country's fate. Beeping, and then silence. Allah has had it with your gross transgressions."

"Go to hell!" Ryan snarled, and Abdul-Basir scoffed. "I've met people of your faith, of Islam. True believers of your religion; they're nothing like you, you murdering son of a bitch! They're good, honest people. You are just a radical!"

That brought his captor's gaze, and Ryan knew he'd said something right. But then… nothing happened.

"We will see." Was the cold response, and Abdul-Basir went back to work. There were just a few diagnostics left.

* * *

It was dark out now. Mulroy approached the radio equipment in the van that had escorted his own team. Lifting the mic off a console running along the side of the interior, he clicked into the right frequency. "Team Two lead, reporting in. Command, do you copy, over?"

"We copy Team Two lead, what's your status, over?" A crackly voice from several miles away asked.

"Checking intel once more, then we'll move, over." Mulroy reported coldly.

"Copy Team Two lead, out."

Mulroy regrouped with Houston and the two prepared themselves. Both were ready in minutes, and sat waiting patiently while the last-minute paper clip requisitions concluded.

The time came at a quarter to midnight. Operation: PATRIOT was underway. Element One made their way towards the steel emergency door on the northern end of the building, while Element Two boarded the Night Hawk a few blocks away. Mulroy's demolitions specialist, a fresh "sapper" from the US Army, rigged the door with the necessary payload to open up a breach in the wall. While he did so, the pilot of the Night Hawk circled overhead and stabilized. Seconds later thread-like black silhouettes dropped from the cabin.

"Take your time." Mulroy advised, watching the hasty ministrations of the young demo kid. A deep breath was all it took to calm his nerves. "Element Two is waiting on our go, this op doesn't start until we say it does."

On the roof, the entirety of Element One fast-roped two by two from the cabin of the helicopter, and each man fanned out to cover his own sector of their surroundings. It wasn't long before all six members of Element Two were safely at their insertion. The Night Hawk then broke off to orbit around the White House for the next fifteen to twenty minutes.

"Team Two lead, this is Team One lead." Houston whispered into his headset. "We're in place. Waiting for your go, over."

There was a moment of delay. "Package is set, Team One lead. Thirty seconds to detonation, over."

"Roger."

It was the longest thirty seconds of "Sam" Houston's life. With his MP5/10 cradled at a ready, he waited until the booming report of Element One's C4 rig. It came right on time.

The very ground shook as the charges went off, and Houston gave the signal for his first sergeant to yank open the door into the stairwell. The entire team filed in utilizing a simple column formation. One of the riflemen, an SAS operator by the name of Henry Pierce, took point. He'd killed two of the Pakistani protective agents by the time he entered the West Wing with the team.

"This way!" Houston barked at them. "Remember: our sole objective is securing BOY SCOUT. All other priorities fall on Element One. Let's move people!"

* * *

Abdul-Basir heard the detonation of the C4 and looked up, his jaw drooping just an inch as he reached for the pistol on his belt. "What the hell is that?"

"Welcoming committee, asshole." Ryan growled from his place on the floor. Cathy willed him to maintain his temper, but she knew her husband. She knew he was planning something when she saw that cocky glimmer in his eyes, accompanied by the brash quips.

The Pakistani President reeled in fury and pointed the gun at Ryan. "Somebody shut him up!" Then, "You, Omar, go see what that was!"

* * *

Houston was the first to see him, coming around the corner up ahead, most likely from the Oval Office. The obedient Omar caught a brief string of shots in the chest and face before toppling over, his dead weight slamming against the ground with a loud thump. Houston, lowering his MP5/10, gave the signal for the element to split into two, with three operatives manning one of the two doors that lead into the Oval Office.

"Get ready to breach!" Houston ordered, unclipping one of the two M100 grenades from his belt and slipping his finger through the pin. Once he caught the hand signal from the others, he nodded to his first sergeant.

* * *

Ryan barely heard it. There was the hasty shuffle of feet moving with a purpose, before a faint creak preceding the telltale sound of a small object clattering across the floor. The M100 detonated almost upon impact, sending a potent electromagnetic pulse through the Oval Office that instantly disabled all electronics in the room. Next was the sound of night-vision goggles slipping over the eyes of the six men filing into the room.

But the POTUS was already moving, seeing Abdul-Basir's figure silhouetted against the moonlight streaming in through the windows behind. He leapt to his feet and took advantage of his hands' recently gained freedom and took the Pakistani in a ferocious bear hug, sending both crashing down against the floor before letting his bunched fist connect with the side of Abdul-Basir's face.

The rest of the room was erupting. Houston lead his men into the Oval Office, acquiring targets and neutralizing them in the span of a few seconds. There were two standing over the hostages. One raised his Uzi in vehement defiance, spraying the upper wall and ceiling with bullets as his body reeled back as a three-round burst connected with his head. The other was finished just as fast, swiveling his own weapon to the side as he prepared to mow down the kneeling captives. Houston's first sergeant was diligent, however, sidestepping from behind his team leader and raising his MP5/10. Barely had he acquired his target when his finger depressed on the trigger, peppering the head of the last remaining with three ten millimeter rounds.

Meanwhile, the President of the United States found himself thrown to the side by Abdul-Basir, who, crawling on his hands and knees, was making his way towards the still active suitcase nuke. As his back stretched upright and his hands closed in on the emergency trigger, Ryan clambered for the gun he'd dropped in the tackle. He grabbed it—an older model Browning—and choked the grip with both hands as he lined up the sights with that precious spot in the back of Abdul-Basir's head.

The rest of the RAINBOW team was moving towards the rear of the Oval Office, unable to fire on Abdul-Basir, who was attempting to work the keypad of the nuke while hiding behind the President's desk. Houston himself had witnessed it first. He looked over at Ryan just in time to see the POTUS fire once, twice, and a third time.

In the darkness of the rest of the room, the muzzle flash of the nine millimeter Browning handgun was particularly spectacular. The shots were all in rapid succession, and Ryan dropped the weapon as soon as his mind had processed the fact that it was all over. BLACK SHEEP's head bore three neat holes from the through-and-through shots, the first of which had severed the junction between his spinal cord and brain stem. He was dead instantly, and a moment later his body slumped over sideways.

Houston and his first sergeant made for the President, throwing him onto his belly and restraining his wrists with a pair of plasticuffs. (Standard procedure.) A second later, the two men jerked Ryan onto his feet and ushered him out of the Oval Office as Mulroy's team entered and made for the SADM.

It was minutes before the POTUS was taken aboard the Night Hawk and extracted from the White House. With the nuke secured by Element One and BOY SCOUT in the custody of Element Two, Operation: PATRIOT was complete.

A/N: So is that it? Is the story over? Absolutely not. Two more chapters to come, including the epilogue. After that, I've got some more work in the process of being written, but I'll speak more on that in an update to my profile. As usual, I will appreciate any feedback my readers have for me. So, in other words, don't shy away from that review button down there. Or up there. The new mobile version of the site has gotten me all out of whack. Oi. Have a good day!


	13. The Root of All Evils

A/N: And here we are! This is the twelfth, last chapter of _Rainbow Six: Black Sheep_. It's been a long ride, longer than it should have been (thanks to me), and I hope you all enjoyed it. This and the subsequent epilogue that will probably come up around noon (again, uploading this at like, midnight) will be aimed at wrapping up the plot. For the rest of the story you'll be seeing the fates of many of the different characters introduced, including the two biggest antagonists in the plot. Some subplots will be concluded, and other literary devices will be used to bring everything to a close. Again, I hope the readers all enjoyed the story, and I always appreciate those who take the time to review my work and offer even the most general feedback. As previously mentioned in an update on my profile, I will be moving on to a new story after this one is finished, and if you liked this, then I always recommend a visit to my profile to check out any of my other work. Now, I suppose it's time for me to stop wasting your time with this boring introductory message. I give you Chapter Twelve.

-Chapter Twelve-

The Root of All Evils

Life for Vincent Palmer had not gotten any better after the prompt killing of Mohammad Abdul-Basir and his "protection" detail in Washington. After the threat of a nuclear detonation had been adverted, and the crisis was over, it had finally come time to further analyze what had lead up to the terrorists being enable to stage their attack. In other words, it was time for President Ryan and a full committee of diplomats from the United Nations and North Atlantic Treaty Organization to break down his performance as RAINBOW SIX. Price's enacting of Article 15 had brought on a long slew of consequences. None of them good.

There were hearings to be had. Ryan's committee would come to order in a week, and when that happened there was a long line of witnesses ready to testify against Palmer's ability to run the organization. Bill Tawney was one of them, as were the two surviving members of Loiselle's team that had inserted into Russia. It was looking as though his time leading them had come to an end. Retirement was looking preferable anyway.

As if that weren't enough, he'd been rudely awoken in the wee hours of the morning the night after Operation: PATRIOT had concluded, only to be informed by the Swiss bank that managed his offshore accounts that someone had tried using his identity to purchase a mansion in the Cayman Islands.

It wasn't enough to justify what he was about to attempt to do, but he figured that it would be accepted anyway. His life wasn't exactly in a good place, and people weren't likely to dwell over his passing anyway. When he jammed his keys into the ignition and started up his Rolls-Royce that morning, he wondered if he would even be missed. His wife might mourn him, but that probably wouldn't last long.

Palmer sighed in the confines of his car, turning the steering wheel and pulling out of his driveway ten minutes after he usually did. It didn't matter; he wasn't planning on heading into work. Then again, with Price serving as interim director until the hearings were over, he didn't even have a job.

Giving the empty whiskey bottles on the passenger's seat a brief glance, he hoped his plan would work. There wasn't much to it really, all he had to do was find a nice ditch somewhere and put his foot to the floor. No, it was relatively simple. Not the most glorious way to go, but his chances of leaving this world a hero had dwindled long ago. Around the time he'd been reassigned to work at the Pentagon.

Eventually he found it. The road he'd chosen had been scoped out the previous day and selected mostly due to its anonymity. Certainly off the beaten path, the only establishments to be found along its side was an office block that was up for rent. Besides that, there was a wonderful array of trees surrounding the pavement. He turned on from the adjacent road and took a deep breath. His simple plan would take some doing to pull off.

Out of nowhere he slammed the gas pedal, relishing the feeling of pure inertia that pushed him backwards into the seat.

* * *

Price found the office a bit more to his liking than the previous one. RAINBOW FIVE was a nice position to hold, one he'd been comfortable with since he'd been appointed along with Chavez, who's performance as SIX had impressed everyone at the time. Now that he was moving up—temporarily, yes, but still—he was a bit flustered. Being the director of a massive international organization held a lot of responsibilities.

That didn't change the fact that he was happy to see Palmer go. The way he saw it, that man had been indirectly responsible for allowing Al-Jaali's faction of the Children of God's Army group to place nukes in the hands of a dangerous, radical leader. Subsequently, that also made him responsible for the deaths of Loiselle and most of his team.

Now that the crisis was over, and all the bad guys captured or killed, Price had a rare moment of contemplation. Thus, he had a moment to mourn the men he'd lost in Russia.

It was an unearthly thing, watching so many people die in the amount of time it took a person to blink. More so when they were people you knew. The kind of person you loved and cared about. Price was no stranger to the horrors of combat, not by any means. He'd watched people die, even killing his fair share. He'd had friends sitting next to him one moment, laughing and shooting the breeze. The next, gone. He didn't shy away from death.

But something about that incident… disturbed him. Frightened him to the very core. Left him unable to sleep properly, gave him nightmares. Deep down, he knew what it was. It was the trust they'd put in him as leader. As RAINBOW FIVE, Price was collectively responsible for the authorization and deployment of the troops in the UK division. All of them. Everyone on Loiselle's team had expected Price to supply them with the best intel and the best equipment, and the support them to the very end. And what had come of it? They were all dead, taken from this world while having placed that trust in him. It was that simple fact that perturbed him so greatly.

At the end of the day, it would always be Eddie Price who'd lobbied so passionately to send those men to Russia. It would always be he who had gotten SIX to authorize the op and had personally sent them all to their deaths. He could blame Palmer all he wanted, but Price knew that _he _was the only one to blame.

"I'm sorry." He told the walls of his spacious new office. Pushing himself side to side in the comfy black swivel chair. Feeling his eyes water, he prayed that no one would walk in on him like this. Was that what it had finally taken for him to become SIX? Ten men dying in a surprisingly horrific way? Ten families left without _bloody_ breadwinners? Without even a body to bury? "God, I'm sorry!"

It was just as he began to weep that the door swung open, and Tawney poked his head in. Price cursed and turned to face his guest.

"What is it?"

Tawney, having been ready to spout out whatever it was he had come to tell the new SIX, now saw the sorry state his friend and boss was in, and pursed his lips. "Sorry, Eddie. I didn't mean to-"

"What is it?" Price repeated, blinking back the tears.

"There's something you need to see on the television. It's about Palmer." Tawney said, and patiently waited for Price to collect himself before following him out of the office.

Together they walked to the elevator, taking it down to the intel floor where they walked a bit further on their way to Tawney's office. There was a fancy widescreen that had been installed the previous year, and the intelligence head found his way to the desired recording from a scant five minutes earlier.

Price watched it from the beginning. It was a news broadcast for one of the local networks. Apparently a drunk driver had plowed his car into a ditch not far from the garrison. The tree was knocked over, crushing a small portion of the already wrecked automobile. The driver, who was reportedly lucky to be alive, had been identified as…

"Mother of God!" SIX responded in unbelievable shock. He had to rewind it just to hear it again. After that, he simply stood, mouth gaping. "I can't believe it. I cannot believe it."

"I had one of our analysts call the hospital they carted him off to. The doctors are saying they couldn't find any trace of alcohol in his system." Tawney explained. It only served to further bewilder the provisional head of the organization. "Regardless, the crash was pretty nasty. They're saying it's a miracle he's not dead."

SIX snorted. "I don't know about a 'miracle,' but it's certainly surprising."

Tawney nodded. "The tree they said he ran into collapsed onto the front of his car. He's not out of surgery yet, but they're saying he's never going to walk again. Sounds like he got what he deserved, if you ask me."

* * *

When Dan Murray, Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, was told that his star special agent and personal protégé, Theodore Bunker, had a nice retirement gift for his aging boss, he had no idea it would be one of such magnitude.

It had been a week ago that it was reported that someone had tried to steal the identity of the formerly Simulated Lieutenant General Vincent Palmer. When that had happened, the FBI was used to investigate the theft. What they'd just recently found, besides a two-bit thief who'd been looking to leave his job and move to the Cayman Islands, was a long list of accounting discrepancies in Palmer's account that had resulted in further investigation.

Then Bunker, the agent in charge of the investigation, had hit pay dirt. There was a record of numerous offshore accounts through which an unidentified party had funneled a large sum of money to Palmer's account. An sum that amounted, in US dollars, to a rough six hundred million dollars. (And change.) Where that money had come from spurred on a number of other inquiries.

Eventually, the money was traced as far back as a large banking firm in Dubai. When the name linked with the transaction was entered into the bureau's databases, it came up with nothing. When the CIA ran the same name, the results shocked everyone.

Murray got on the phone immediately with Hereford.

* * *

Price had not been in his office for more than a minute when the phone rang. It was the unsecure line, which meant it wasn't the president of any important country calling. That was good, SIX had become tired of hearing from presidents. They all said the same thing and never followed up on their promises.

"Price." He answered curtly. He didn't immediately recognize the voice on the other end.

"Mr. Price, my name is Daniel Murray." His caller answered. "I work at the FBI, I'm the director here. One of my agents just came across something that I think your organization would be very interested to hear."

_Lovely. _"Go ahead, Mr. Murray."

"The bureau's been in the middle of an investigation into Vincent Palmer, after he was reported to be the victim of an identify theft case. We uncovered a trail of money that found its way through a number of illegitimate holdings in banks around the world. Ultimately, a sum of money that numbers around six hundred million dollars was wired to Palmer from a Hadi Khamir." Murray explained. "Now, we figured the name was an alias, so we ran it through our systems here at the J. Edgar Hoover building, and had the CIA do the same over at Langley."

"What's your point, Mr. Murray?"

Murray cleared his throat, and responded. "It appears that Hadi Khamir is, in fact, an alias previously used by known extremist Hosaam Al-Jaali, who was reportedly captured by your people prior to the attack at the White House."

Price nearly dropped the phone. After getting over the feeling of having his heart stop, in addition to the lump in his throat, he tried to find his voice again.

"What are you saying, Mr. Murray?" He wanted to hear it from someone else.

"Well, Mr. Price, I think that this discovery itself may be evidence that Al-Jaali and Palmer were collaborating on something. Now what that 'something' is, we're not sure of." Murray let the statement sink in before continuing. "Mr. Price, you need to think back to anything that seemed suspicious in your time working with Palmer. Has he done anything to deliberately set back the organizations efforts in stopping Al-Jaali's acquiring of the nuclear device that was almost detonated?"

There were a million thoughts racing through Price's head. The overwhelming feeling of everything finally making sense didn't help to diffuse the onset of pure, unbridled rage that followed. SIX gripped the phone's receiver to the point that his knuckles had become whiter than snow. "Mr. Murray, I want you and the FBI to gather as much evidence of any illegal activities as you possibly can. I want you to see anything that money could have gone towards and call me back when you've found something. Am I understood?"

"Of course, Mr. Price."

* * *

From there it was a matter of tracking down all possibilities. RAINBOW SIX went to work identifying any loose ends left behind by Palmer. Tawney was tasked with contacting the banks that Palmer's money had been routed through in order to hunt down any leftovers of the six million dollars and change. At the same time, he was working to track down where it had gone and what Palmer had used it for.

Meanwhile, Price placed a call to the esteemed Aaron Cash, who had just returned from a two day medical leave after being wounded in the White House siege. Cash was asked to try to help establish any links between the Children of God's Army and Palmer.

The wheels were in motion, and it was only a matter of time until the extent of Palmer's betrayal had been uncovered.

* * *

It was an hour after Palmer had been released from surgery that he managed to talk his way out of a forced stay in the recovery ward. After claiming that he needed to return to work at RAINBOW, Palmer was put in a wheelchair and discharged without the use of either of his legs, both of which had been rendered useless in the crash.

From there the former war hero found his way to the elevator, and, eventually, down into the lobby. Wasting no time greeting any of the staff that had been no less than friendly during his admittedly brief stay, Palmer planned to use whatever money his wife had been able to bring him from their home to hop on a bus that would let him make his escape. . With his ultimate plot ruined, it was time to fall back on his contingency plan.

There was a bank in a small town not far from Hereford. He'd had a safety deposit box cleared in his name, that was now stuffed with a variety of clean passports, a small stash of various currencies, and a gun. The wheelchair would slow him down, but it wouldn't take long for him to recover what he needed and get out of the country.

Palmer cursed Al-Jaali and the rest of his miserable group. Their dirty money had proven too tempting those many months prior, and now he was going to pay the ultimate price for his back alley deals.

At least, the authorities would try to make him pay. Palmer was not a stupid man, and he had every intention of making it out of England scot-free.

It was only a matter of time now.

* * *

Indeed it was, since Price had just about gathered what he'd needed in order to make a case against his former boss. Tawney had found that the majority of the cash had ended up in the pockets of two men who sat on the UN/NATO committee. Measures had been taken to ensure none of them would be able to conveniently disappear before they could be questioned. Meanwhile, an order was put out for Palmer's apprehension.

* * *

At first, things looked grim. A pair of RAINBOW operatives were dispatched to the hospital where Palmer was supposed to be staying. Almost immediately upon their arrival they were informed that Palmer had been discharged. None of the hospital staff were aware of his whereabouts.

From there, they continued their efforts to track the fugitive's movements by interviewing his wife at their home near the garrison. That proved fruitless, since she'd been under the impression that he'd be returning home within the hour. The RAINBOW personnel sent to question her refrained from divulging the allegations against him for the time being. That would just prevent them from getting any useful information.

Fortunately, no one would have to wait long to find Vincent Palmer. By this time, a bulletin had been put out to all neighboring police forces. All of them had been told to be on the lookout for him. A few hours after the message had been sent, RAINBOW SIX got a hit. Palmer had been spotted in the ancient borough of Ledbury, a considerably rural town east of Hereford. Almost immediately, SIX deployed a small fireteam to apprehend him.

With careful coordination between RAINBOW and the simple policing group in Ledbury, Palmer was kept from leaving the town while Price's team traveled from the garrison in Hereford.

* * *

There were just four of them, and even that was probably being a bit over-the-top. Lead by former Team One operative Geoff Bates, his squad's only objective was the capture of Vincent Palmer.

It was a very carefully planned mission. A black bag op, in all seriousness, it's success rested on the ability of the Ledbury officers to keep Palmer from becoming mobile. If their target managed to get out of town before they could move into place, then it would all be for nothing. The complications, of course, came from the fact that Palmer had been in the process of emptying a dead drop in Ledbury. At that point in time, Bates wasn't sure if their target was armed or not; and regardless of who he was, the RAINBOW operators would not refrain from defending themselves. For this op, Bates' team was packing the usual loadout of MP5/10 submachine guns and Beretta 8000 handguns, and orders or no orders, they would use them if they had to.

* * *

Palmer wasn't going anywhere fast. His confinement in a wheelchair made escape a hassle, but not nearly as much as being detained by the Ledbury law enforcement.

"I need to get back home to see my wife!" He pleaded, though by the look in the officer's eyes, he could tell the man knew he was bluffing. "I just got a call from my neighbor. She's fallen down at our home and has been rushed to the hospital. Please!"

"Sorry sir." The insolent little cop retorted. "I've got strict orders to keep anyone from leaving the town until this wanker's been caught."

The excuse the police were using for containing him was that there was some sort of serial killer on the loose outside the town. They said the police were in the process of hunting him down, but none of the town's officers had yet to leave their little borough in the past half hour.

"Damnit man, just let me get out of here!" Palmer barked from his seat. It was at that moment that the sound of set of screeching tires resonated from somewhere behind both of them. Palmer looked back at the corner of their street and the adjacent one, before dismissing the sound as nothing to be concerned with. "I'm telling you, I need to see my wife."

"Hands in the air!"

Bates and his team rushed out as if from nowhere, brandishing all the regular gear and making a beeline straight for Palmer, who appeared as the spitting image of a deer caught in a pair of unforgiving headlights. Unable to flee without the use of his legs, the disgraced former head of USSOCOM turned every which way, before Geoff Bates appeared at his side and he was looking down the barrel of a Heckler & Koch automatic weapon.

"Don't even think about trying anything!" Bates advised, as his first sergeant moved around the rear of the wheelchair to slap a set of plasticuffs on the man who'd once commanded their organization. "Let's go! Bring him back to the van!"

A/N: So that's it. Vincent Palmer, the big man himself, was a treacherous bastard all along. Surprised? Don't worry, I don't blame you. It was a terribly predictable plot twist with which to end the story. Anyway, now the true extent of the Abdul-Basir's conspiracy to detonate the nukes in Washington has been revealed, and the only thing left to depart from this story with is the epilogue, and that will be up very soon. Once more, I hope everyone enjoyed reading my work. Also, once more, I ask that you forgive my repetition as I ask yet again for reviews. How can I improve if I don't know what my readers think of what is arguably my best piece of fanfiction on the site? So that's that. (P.S. As far as paper-clip niceties go, I might return to the former chapters and find something to replace the damn asterisks. The constant wall of text in many of them is just too difficult to read for me.) Have a good day!


	14. Justice is Blind

A/N: Well, my faithful readers, this is it. The epilogue of this long drawn-out story and the last you'll be reading of what is probably by best work of fiction on this site. It basically covers everything that was left open in these last few chapters, and brings closure for most of the main characters. Admittedly, I haven't been too proud of the writing towards the end of the plot. I felt that this story was at its high point when it first started, when my writing style was at its best. Despite that, I wasn't planning on letting it go unfinished, as I have with another of my works. Regardless, here is the epilogue I promised would arrive yesterday. (Yeah, sorry about that.)

-Epilogue-

Justice is Blind

Price stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. Sitting on the other side of the glass, a mere several feet away, was the man who'd brought about so much death and suffering. Was that a hyperbole? No. It was the truth, regardless of exactly how deep his involvement had gone. It didn't matter whether Palmer had simply enabled the cold-blooded killers or pulled the trigger himself. He was complicit, and he'd eventually tried to cover their tracks to save his own ass. To RAINBOW SIX, Vincent Palmer was nothing more than a common criminal.

Then again, a simple criminal? Now that he thought about it, no. Palmer was not worthy of being called a criminal. He was a monster. He might not have looked like one, but the true monsters never did. He was among the lowest level of scum that existed on earth.

"Has he said anything?" Price asked in a raspy whisper. Standing with him behind the one-way mirror was Tawney.

The head of intelligence shook his head. "No. I think he's waiting for you to go in."

There was a moment of silence that followed. "He won't have to wait long."

* * *

Lieutenant General Vincent Palmer, US Army, had given up trying to relax almost as soon as he'd arrived at the garrison. He knew that, with his capture, life as he knew it had now come to an end. It didn't matter now whether he talked or not; anything he had to add to the information they'd gathered was simply extraneous. RAINBOW's intelligence department, along with FBI and CIA, had assembled enough evidence to put him away for a _very _long time.

It was a terrible feeling, to be confined. To know that you were trapped in such a way that you would never see the light of day again. Palmer had always been claustrophobic as a child; he wondered what circle of hell a term at Leavenworth would be like. Already he was enduring a preview. He'd been sitting in one of the holding rooms at the RAINBOW garrison for what must have been at least ten hours. Long hours of silence, with nothing to do but sit and wonder why he'd done what he'd done. It was funny; he hadn't come to any good conclusions.

When Price entered the room, without even casting Palmer a brief glance, the prisoner almost relished the company.

"I know what you're going to ask me." The disgraced three star general murmured, not even sure if he should have been talking. It was no secret that Eddie Price hated him with every fiber of his being. Before, when Palmer had just been an incompetent leader, Price had merely resented him. With the truth revealed, he _loathed_ him. "You are going to ask me why I did it. Then you're going to read me their names. The names of everyone on Loiselle's team, and after that, you'll yell. You'll ask me if it was worth it, the six hundred million. For the deaths of ten good men. And I… I won't really have an answer. Because the truth is I can't tell you why I did it, or if it was worth it; I don't know."

Silence.

Price wasn't moving. He hadn't taken the seat across the table from Palmer, and he hadn't made a gesture of any kind. Instead, he was standing like a stone tower over the traitor, boring holes into Palmer's forehead with his own merciless glower.

"I don't care why you did it." He said after several seconds had passed. "I don't even care if you think it was worth betraying us. Because the truth is, all I care about is the fact that you'll burn in hell for what you've done. But besides that, I _will _know exactly how far the roots of your betrayal reach."

Then he took a seat. Price managed to find the mind to bring in a notepad and pen, and was ready to take down anything Palmer said in seconds. "Talk."

At that word, Palmer made his decision. In the hopes that maybe, just maybe, he could appeal to the merciful side of his captors, the man who had once been RAINBOW SIX disclosed every aspect of his activities with Hosaam Al-Jaali and his involvement in Mohammad Abdul-Basir's conspiracy.

It had begun almost a year before Palmer had been appointed to lead RAINBOW. Working at the Pentagon had left him tired and weary, and he no longer had any pride in his service to his country. His only concern at that time had been furthering his own career, and there was rumored to be a position open commanding a multi-national "black" unit. When Palmer had sought out the men and women who had the power to choose the person who would fill that position, he'd been introduced to the joint United Nations/North Atlantic Treaty Organization committee lead by President Ryan. Initially, the board had been less that enthusiastic to grant him the position.

Shortly after, Palmer discovered that two of the people who sat on that committee had been accused of accepting bribes in the past. That was something he'd figured he could exploit.

That was when Al-Jaali had contact him discreetly using messages delivered through a distant acquaintance of Palmer's that was also a friend of the family. Palmer had no qualms about divulging the name of the acquaintance in question to Price.

Al-Jaali's offer was simple: his splinter faction of the CGA could not conduct their activities in preparation for the nuclear detonation with RAINBOW posing a constant threat. Al-Jaali would use money secured by Abdul-Basir to enable Palmer to bribe the board members in question. With their favor guaranteed, and Palmer pushed into a position to aid Al-Jaali's group, the rest of the plan was simple: Palmer would serve as RAINBOW SIX and use his power within the organization to curtail any efforts to stop them from assembling what they needed to build their nuclear device. That was why he'd kept them out of the Chernobyl exclusion zone, and had made sure their deployment to the Brezhnev Laboratory of Critical Sciences was delayed long enough for Al-Jaali's Syrian mercenaries to plant the bombs.

When RAINBOW FIVE had initiated Operation: VENGEFUL TALON without Palmer's knowing, that was when the plan had crumbled. Palmer had obviously been unable to hamper an operation he had no knowledge of. When Al-Jaali had been captured, Palmer had been naïve, believing the Islamic extremist to be able to resist his interrogation. He had also been fooled into believing that, with Al-Jaali captured, the trail stopped there, and he was in the clear.

Then they jumped forward. With the conclusion of Operation: PATRIOT and the following identity theft, he'd been spooked. Furthermore, he had not anticipated the backlash from his deputy director and the rest of the organization. He had not anticipated being removed as RAINBOW SIX, while Ryan's committee debated on whether or not he would be discharged and sent back to the Untied States. That was when he'd gotten desperate.

Palmer fabricated a plan to get himself out of trouble. After staging it to look like he'd been intoxicated, Palmer attempted to fake his own death by crashing his car into a tree. Obviously, he'd encountered some unexpected mishaps and had been unable to escape the car before the collision, a mistake that had resulted in him being unable to use his legs.

"So that's it." Price breathed, dropping the pen on the table and staring down the man—if you could call him a man—sitting opposite him. "That's why you did it? Simple greed? Ambition? That's what it took for you to send ten men to their deaths."

"You're like a broken record, you know that?" Palmer barked. "I didn't know those people would have to die when I accepted the money, Eddie! I didn't know what Al-Jaali wanted me to do, how far he wanted me to go!"

And that was it. The trigger. The catalyst that lit the fuse in Price that ran out only a few seconds later. "You collaborated with terrorists!" He roared. "What the hell did you think he would ask you to do?"

Palmer sunk into his chair and sighed. "I don't know. I wasn't thinking about that."

"No, of course you weren't." RAINBOW SIX snorted. "You were just looking for a shortcut. Just trying to get your own career on the fast track, with no regard for who got killed as a result. You are not only responsible for sending ten good men to their deaths, but you brought shame to a good man's legacy. I watched John Terrence Clark build this organization from the ground up; I watched it grow from a pack of dreamers to one of the most formidable special operations organizations in the world! And you ruined all of it."

Price stood and took his papers in hand as he made for the door. As he left Palmer on his way out of the room, Eddie Price wished for a brief moment that the bastard's wheelchair had been traded out for an electric version.

* * *

It was an eerie feeling, knowing you were walking to your death, surrounded by the people you'd opposed almost all your life. If Al-Jaali hadn't known any better, he might have said it was the feeling of defeat. But he was smarter than that. He knew that his victory, while not present in this life, would be glorious in the next.

He was in Israel, in a small, dark building people rarely entered. Many who did, never came back out. Just like he wouldn't. As he looked upwards at the spot at which his life would come to a miserable end, he wondered for a passing moment if it was worth it. Had all the prayer, devotion, and murder been worth it in the end. Had he really secured a place in heaven as he believed he had. He dismissed any such doubts a second later. Of course he had. His faith was the path of the true, and the righteous. It was the infidels who should be doubting. It was _their_ afterlives which were in jeopardy.

The Israeli government hadn't taken long deciding what to do with him. Hosaam Al-Jaali was a murderer, and his sentencing had been swift and deliberate. Despite the idea of death looming over him, Al-Jaali swallowed his fears and took the opportunity to show the Israelis what true courage was.

Before he had realized how much time had passed, he felt his body being shoved forward, a noose descending over his head and tightening around his neck. The black hood that concealed his face kept him from looking at the faces of the cowardly executioners that surrounded him. The time had come. Allah had decided.

With the preparations complete, Al-Jaali smiled under the black hood and used his last full breath to condemn the Israeli interlopers and the Zionist movement. _May they all face the consequences of their actions. Infidels._

"_Allahu akbar_!"

Out of nowhere, the rest of the world dropped out from under him. Al-Jaali's body dropped perhaps a foot, while his legs contorted in horrific ways. He was shocked by the pain. The noose, tight around his neck, had fractured his larynx and nestled under his jaw. His eyes became wide as saucers as he stared pitifully into the black fabric of the hood that left him without any kind of connection to the rest of the world. The only thing that existed was the pain.

Then he began to panic.

Instinct told him to reach for the rope bound around his neck, but his hands were restrained behind his back. That was when it happened. Years of faithful dedication to his ideology abandoned him in an instant. His beliefs had limits. He didn't want to die! He opened his mouth to scream under the hood, but found himself lacking the necessary breath.

It wouldn't be much longer. As his muscles all simultaneously tried to fight off the reality of perishing in such a manner as this, Al-Jaali knew his vision must have been fading.

The blood loss to his brain was too great. The last bit of consciousness he had was used to ask why God had abandoned him.

The executioners all watched in impassive bliss. There was no remorse, no regret, and no emotion. Hosaam Al-Jaali had chosen to live his life as a murderer, torturer, and a terrorist. His loss would not be mourned, and none would grieve over his death. His sinful existence was only to be forgotten as time went on. The only consolation for his victims being that justice had finally been served.

* * *

Golovko frowned in the comfort of his personal car as he scoured the daily newsletter for anything of interest. It wasn't that he'd hoped for anything bad to happen to the Americans, just that such a occurance would have met serious political repercussions for President Iltcenko. The only way to avoid war in those circumstances would have been for the man to relinquish his office to a successor supported by the Americans, and that would have meant excellent advances in his career. Golovko had been acquainted with Ryan and the CIA for years. He was a natural choice.

But it was not meant to be so. Iltchenko retained the rights and responsibilities of the highest office in their land, and all it meant was that his secret dealings with the press had all been done in vain. Well, perhaps not in vain. There were sure to be more mistakes while that man remained President of the Russian Federation.

He was surprised when his cell phone rang. Golovko didn't usually get calls before work.

"_Da_?"

"Sergey. It's good to speak with you again, _moi droog_." Ryan greeted.

Golovko smirked. "And you, Mr. President. I did not believe we would ever speak again when I heard of the incident at the White House. How are you?"

"Well I'm fine, Sergey. It's not like it's the first time I've had a gun pointed at me." He joked. "But all jokes aside, I suppose the resolution of that crisis means good things for your country. NATO is backing down with Abdul-Basir dead and the nuke dismantled, which means Aleksei Iltchenko will be able to retain his office."

_Yes, that is lovely. _"I suppose so."

Ryan grunted in agreement. "Yes. You must be very disappointed."

Golovko looked up from the newspaper and furrowed his brow. "I'm sorry?"

"Come now, Sergey. We've known each other for a very long time. Did you really think that wouldn't see through you immediately? I'll admit, it took a few moments of consideration, but I know what it is you were planning."

There was a moment where Golovko was genuinely impressed. He and Jack Ryan had, indeed, known each other for a long time. In that time, they'd become more rivals than true enemies. Golovko respected his nemesis in the world of American intelligence, and the feeling was mutual. But such a relationship made for a considerable lack of secrecy between them.

"I see."

"Quite ingenious, actually. Leaking such matters of national security to the media, in order to further your own political career." Ryan commended him. "What an interesting way to use free press for your own motives. But I'm afraid power plays such as that are generally looked down upon in the Russian political scene."

Once again, his American counterpart had somehow forced Golovko into a most awkward position. _Got yourself in check again Sergey. _"You are most correct, my friend. What is it you want?"

Ryan spoke in a demure, almost friendly manner. "Nothing, Sergey. I am not going to blackmail you with this information, nor will I expect anything more from you. I simply found it prudent to remind you that… we are always going to be looking over each other's shoulder."

Golovko smirked at that and set the paper down on the seat next to him. "Thank you, Mr. President."

* * *

It was a bit chilly out that night, enough so that Tawney had a mind to wear his heavier leather coat to their brief meeting. It was late enough into the darkness for most places to be closed, given the hour of their discreet rendezvous at the near empty parking garage. Moscow was a rather dreary place, the Brit mused.

"William." A voice called in the darkness, and Tawney turned to see his cohort approaching from the elevator. "I didn't think you would come."

"Didn't think I'd come? What kind of wretch do you take me for?"

Mokashev smiled at the comment and offered his friend a cigarette from the box in his pocket, which was graciously accepted. "A _neculturny_ old man, that's what."

"You said you wanted to tell me something." Tawney reminded him, whipping out his old lighter and lighting the cig in his mouth.

The two men began a brisk walk around the top floor of the parking garage, speaking of matters not to be heard by the public.

"We have heard from our sources in the Middle East. Your friend, Al-Jaali, was executed in Israel yesterday." Said the senior analyst of the FSB. "His trial was nothing if not a formality, the sentencing went much the same way."

"Is that all?"

Tawney looked over and saw his friend shake his head. "Pakistan has ushered in a new politician to fill the void created by Mohammad Abdul-Basir's death. The file we have on him at the office seems to indicate he is much more reasonable than his recently deceased colleague. There are little to no traces of radical practices in his history, and he seems accepting to the prospect of opening his country to the international community. May be a good place to start in getting a foothold for RAINBOW in the region."

"I have wondered, at times, if it is the best thing for RAINBOW to stay active." Tawney conceded. "We used to be a beacon for other countries. A conduit through which the people of different nations could set aside their differences and work together to protect innocent people. That was the vision behind John Clark's work when he first started the unit. But now, it's grown into something… overpowered and grotesque. I think Palmer is responsible for making it that way. From now on, people will cease to remember us for all the good we have done, all the lives we saved. Instead, RAINBOW will be characterized by one man's betrayal."

They stopped walking. Tawney sighed and stared at his friend.

"Domingo Chavez had another heart attack."

Mokashev closed his eyes and exhaled. "How is he?"

"Not good. It was a lot worse than his first one. The doctors had trouble reviving him, and they're saying he might need to be hospitalized." The head of intelligence at RAINBOW shook his head in disdain. "Happened right when he heard the news of what Palmer had done. Right in front of his wife and Eddie Price."

They stood for several seconds, just basking in the news. Lyov Mokashev did not know Ding personally, save for anything Tawney had told him over the course of their friendship. He knew enough to know that it was a deeply troubling matter for anyone who heard.

"Vincent Palmer will be tried internationally, but it won't amount to much." Tawney continued, the telltale signs of contempt echoing in his trembling voice. "He'll play to the people's sympathetic side, use his unofficial status as a cripple to get off easy. That son of a bitch is going to get a slap on the wrist and go free, while Abdul-Basir takes all the blame. Meanwhile, he will remain responsible for so much suffering, so much pain."

"Sometimes," Mokashev interrupted, "we must take a step back from our own personal bubbles and take a look at the world we live in. We must realize that, unfortunately, people do not always get what they deserve. That is what the afterlife is for, my friend."

"I suppose."

Tawney's friend gripped him by the shoulder and patted him a couple times. "I have never before been a very religious man. But I do believe that Vincent Palmer will pay for what he has done. You just have to sit back and realize that it is not the place of you or me to decide to take justice into our own hands. Such is the nature of our world."

"Laws exist for a reason." He continued. "And breaking them… that simply serves to lower ourselves to their level."

* * *

Tawney returned to his hotel room later that night, and son found that his meeting with Mokashev had gone late into the wee hours of the morning. Ready to finally relax after a long day of collaborative work with the FSB, he fell onto his bed after discarding his shoes near the door. With one hand, he snatched the remote off the dresser and switched on the television.

He'd been feeling such a blend of emotions over the course of the past few days. Feelings of contempt and remorse, and other such grim things. Palmer's capture had only served to remind him of the loss of his friends. For the moment, all he wanted to do was lock himself away and curse those that had wronged him and his loved ones. Instead, he had to satisfy his feelings of anguish by accepting the fact that good men were now either dead or dying, and the scum that had brought about their pain was eventually going to be released to the world a free man. For several minutes Tawney lay there on his bed, wondering why it was the world could be such a cruel place.

Instinctively he looked over at the television screen after finding himself unable to sleep. The channel, who's name he failed to catch, ran international news all day long.

Eventually a story caught his attention. Somebody had been killed, an older man in his fifties. A supposed military veteran, the man had been in the custody of the FBI in Washington when the car he'd been riding in had been in a collision with a tractor-trailer on its way to the J. Edgar Hoover building. The two bureau agents in the vehicle had remained unharmed, the only casualty being the prisoner, one… Vincent Palmer.

"Holy shit!"

Tawney sat up in the bed and stared at the screen, which was now flashing footage of the wreck along with the anchorman's monotone commentary.

Unbelievable.

From then until the end of the story, Tawney remained speechless. He didn't bother calling anyone, and didn't bother dwelling on it for much longer. This just meant that it was all over. All of it. There was nothing more to be said regarding the past several months. The hellish ordeal was over, and the bad guys had all gotten what was coming to them. First Abdul-Basir had met his demise at the hands of America's scrappiest commander-in-chief, followed by his co-conspirator Al-Jaali. Now Palmer had joined them, and there was nothing more to be said on the matter.

Laying back with his head on the pillow, Tawney was left contemplating the depth of Mokashev's words to him, and wondering if there really was some omnipotent force that ensured justice would always be served.

Was one of the reasons RAINBOW existed? An entity of swift reparations, founded by a man who had once seen the horrors of a world where murderers and other vile beings could go free, and who had later made it his mission in life trying to change that.

Perhaps, there had always been more to John Clark's legacy than he or any of his friends at RAINBOW had ever realized.

A/N: I really don't have much else to say that I could finish with. Again, I sincerely hope you all enjoyed reading _Rainbow Six: Black Sheep_ and strongly advise that any of you who have not read the original work by literary genius Tom Clancy, go and do so now! It's entitled _Rainbow Six_, and is a part of the Jack Ryan series of novels that began with the well-known _The Hunt for Red October_. It's a book that serves as a much better thriller than what you just read, written by a man I'd love to some day be considered on the same level with. However, I'm humble enough to admit that, right now, I'm nowhere near that good, and would love for my readers to offer me any insight into how I could improve myself as an author. So, as usual, I ask that anyone with some free time would take the opportunity to leave a review. Thank you, and have a wonderful day.


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